


Black Dahlia

by SpicyReyes



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: ...sorta, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Autistic Dexter Morgan, Bisexual James Doakes, Demisexual Dexter Morgan, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Emetophobia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jewish James Doakes, M/M, Murder, Season/Series 02, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Tired Debra Morgan, doing drugs for the sake of an alibi, more Enemies to Lovers to Friends to Boyfriends, web of lies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22254874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyReyes/pseuds/SpicyReyes
Summary: A simple concept: If Dexter had kept up his "heroin addict" alibi, things might've gone a little differently.
Relationships: James Doakes/Dexter Morgan
Comments: 308
Kudos: 592





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> uHHHH  
> i've been resisting the urge to write this fic since like 2008 so here you go, the brainworm i never got rid of, taking shape at last  
> basically in season 2, when dexter pretends to be a heroin addict, i just...loved it  
> i just wanted so much more with it!! more people learning "the truth" and trying to intervene and help and support and hnnnng  
> i also shipped a mega rarepair of doakes/dexter which really should have been a thing tbqh  
> warnings for discussions of drugs and addiction, use of some Problematic Language™ about drug addiction (that will later be addressed), a lot of getting sick, discussions of suicide/suicidal tendencies (speculated only), and a single legitimate mild overdose here in ch1 for the sake of an alibi, because that's just The Way It Is  
> anyways this fic is incredibly niche and i am sorry but im also not actually sorry at all

Panicking over his impending exposure as the notorious Bay Harbor Butcher, there were plenty of things Dexter needed to spend time on. Getting rid of the footage of him cleaning his boat, for one. On a larger scale, ensuring that nothing was recovered from the multitude of corpses that had been pulled from the ocean floor. Now, convincing Rita that he hadn't actually slept with his sponsor - which, at least, was the one crime of which he was genuinely innocent. 

Nowhere on this list did he factor in needed to solidify his best alibi, and yet…

Debra eyed him, her gaze heavy, something suspicious growing in it. 

"...What?" Dexter prompted her. He had told her next to nothing about the breakup, how had she already formed a suspicion? His sister wasn't the type to assume the worst of him, so her making the  _ correct  _ jump seemed impossible-

-Except, instead, she said, "You know Doakes asked me if you were on drugs?"

Dexter froze. 

"I thought it was weird," Debra continued. "Because he really seemed convinced you were on something, and that the other day you were twitchy because you'd gotten another hit. And now Rita left you, and given her history with drug addicts, it's just a little weird of a coincidence that he would have accused you of being on drugs. Especially since I know you aren't."

Dexter watched her, carefully blank. "...Right. Weird." 

Debra blinked at him. "...Oh, my God, Dex."

She was a better investigator than she thought she was, and knew Dexter too well. Still, better she assume guilt for this than the truth. 

"Deb-..."

"No, Dex!" Debra yelled at him, hand combing through her hair in frustration as she stared at him. "You- that's not  _ like  _ you, Dex-...And Rita! She's been through so much, I can't believe you'd-...How the hell did you even-..." She let out a harsh breath. "How did Doakes know about this?"

_ And not me _ went unspoken, but Dexter heard it nonetheless. "...He followed me to an NA meeting."

"Jesus." Debra ran her hands down her face. "Jesus shitting fucking Christ, Dex, I can't believe this."

Dexter didn't have any clue what she expected from him - she wouldn't get justification, he wouldn't beg her to understand, nor would he say anything at all that could dig his grave any deeper. Whatever conclusions she came to about him were to be her own. Assumptions had gotten him this far, what was one more push?

"...How long's it been?"

"Since I started?" Dexter asked. "Or since I stopped?"

She shook her head. "Fucking-...I dunno. Both."

He didn't particularly want to answer either. "Started little by little, years ago."

Debra waited through his silence a moment, before prompting, "And when did you stop?"

Dexter thought of the close calls he'd had, the latest of which led to the voicemail that caused his breakup. "...I'm weaning."

"Fucking hell, Dex, really?" She shook her head again, running her hands down her face. "Okay. Okay, here's what we are going to do. You're gonna stop using, starting now. I'm gonna get a testing kit and we are gonna do  _ checks.  _ I'm your fucking sponsor now, like it or not, and I'm not letting you do this to yourself anymore, you understand?"

"...Yeah," Dexter said, grateful she was buying into it so wholly and simply. "Yeah, totally. We can do that."

"Okay," she said. "I'll get everything we need to do the tests, and we'll take the first one tomorrow, okay?"

Dexter's blood ran cold. "...Tomorrow? Shouldn't- shouldn't it get out of my system, first, y'know- so it all comes back clean?"

"Gotta make sure I know what I'm looking for," she said. "And I'm not giving you time to figure out how to get around it, either, so don't think you can."

That was the opposite of the problem. If he tested, she would get negatives. Whether she from there assumed he was fooling the test or figured out that he was lying was irrelevant - the damage would be done, one way or the other. 

Poppy seeds were known for false positives on opioids, he thought, but he wasn't sure where he'd find an industrial load of those to ingest in the next day to equate a lifetime heroin addiction. 

"...I really need to head into work," he said. 

This was a problem that, as unfortunate as it was, at least had a clear solution. 

  
  
  
  


Dexter was missing. 

Debra paced in the living room of their apartment. Normally, she wouldn't worry, trusting a grown man to handle himself for a few extra hours. Right now, though, all she could think was the hesitation in her brother's voice when he'd danced around her questions about his sobriety. 

When her phone rang, she practically tripped over herself trying to answer it immediately. 

"Dex?"

"Deb…"

Debra swore. Dexter sounded rough, worse than she'd ever heard him. "Are you crying?"

"It was because of me," Dexter said -  _ sobbed _ , it sounded like. "He died because of me. He hated what I turned into. I...I killed him. Our father. He's dead because of me."

"Dex," Debra said. "Dad died naturally. There was nothing we could do. Where are you? What all did you take?"

"I'm...I went to the shipyard."

"The what?" Debra frowned. "Why the fuck are you in a shipyard?"

"They killed her here."

"Killed who?" She scrambled around, pulling on shoes and scooping up her keys. "Dex, gimme an address, I'm coming to get you."

"I think...it was this one."

"This what?"

The line disconnected. 

"Fuck," she swore. "Fuck! Fucking-..."

Once, for no apparent reason, Masuka had collected most of the department's phone numbers and sent them a mass text asking about everyone's favorite type of donut. What had followed was about four hours of nonstop notifications of people threatening grievous bodily harm to him for having made it, which only grew more violent as the chat history grew longer and the notifications became more of an annoyance. 

At the time, Debra had wanted to put Masuka's head in the spot of the blood splatter dummy from the testing room Dexter used. Now, she could practically go find and kiss the perverted little fucker, because it meant only a few minutes of sleuthing were needed to locate the number she was after. 

"Pick up," she pleaded as the phone rang in her ear. "Pick up, pick up, pick-..."

"Doakes."

"Doakes!" She exclaimed. "Oh, thank fuck, you picked up."

"...Who is this?"

"It's Debra," she said, quickly. "Debra Morgan. I'm sorry, I just didn't know who else to call, and I know you know-..."

"Slow down," he said. "You're not making any sense. What's happened?"

"It's Dexter," she said. "You were right. I didn't know, but he admitted to it, and I think I freaked him out because he didn't come home and he called me and said something about a shipyard? And I think- I think he's using, and I think it's bad. Really bad. He sounded so fucked up, and he was babbling about our dad- Doakes, you followed him around, did he ever go to a shipyard?"

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think I know where he went, if that's it." There was a rustling on the other end of the line, followed by him rattling off an address, which Debra jotted down sloppily on a paper towel and rushed out the door with. 

"Thank you," she said. "I owe you. So, so much-..."

"I'm not done yet," Doakes cut her off. "I'm coming, too. I'll meet you at the shipyard in just a minute. If he's done something stupid, you're gonna need help reeling him in."

Double fuck. 

“Okay, okay,” she agreed. “...Thanks. Doakes, if he’s not okay-...”

“We’ll get him taken care of,” Doakes said. “See you in a minute, Morgan.”

  
  
  
  


“There’s a fucking thousand of these things,” Debra said, looking around at the abudance of shipping containers. “How the fuck are we supposed to find him?”

“Heads up.”

Debra looked to Doakes, just in time to catch the item he tossed her way. 

“You brought radios?” she asked, incredulous. 

“We split up,” he said. “Channel two - call if you find him. The crates are numbered and the lots are labeled, it shouldn’t be hard to find each other once we’ve got one. Got your badge, in case someone comes and finds us out here?”

“Yeah,” Debra said. “Yeah, good call. Let’s see what we can find.”

They turned in opposite directions, each heading through the rows of containers.

“Morgan!” Doakes called as he walked. “Morgan, where are you at? If you aren’t dead when I find you, you’re fuckin’ gonna be.” 

His flashlight reflected off something in the distance. Picking up the pace, he came closer to it, looking carefully -

“Ugh,” he covered his face, disgusted. Someone had been sick there.

If that had been Dexter, that wasn’t a good sign. A long time addict getting physically sick - he might have overdosed. On the bright side, he was probably nearby. 

“Morgan!” he called out. “Morgan, you here?” 

He turned the flashlight this way and that, looking at the containers around him, until he spied one with an open door. 

“Morgan!”

He jogged up to it, wrenching the door open. His flashlight shone inside, lighting up a pale, hunched figure.

“Found you,” he breathed, fishing out the radio. “Debra, found him. Crate CBAN-3489.”

“Thank god,” her voice crackled through the speaker. “Is he okay?”

Under the flashlight, Dexter’s head raised up, looking blearily to Doakes. “Deb…?”

“He’s alive and talking,” Doakes told her. “I’m gonna see what I can do.” 

“I’m on the way.”

Doakes walked further into the container, scanning the contents of the container, shining his flashlight around. 

Something glinted, and he crouched to inspect it.

“Jesus Christ, Morgan,” Doakes muttered, bringing up the radio again and telling Debra, “There’s an evidence bag in here.”

The radio crackled to life again. “He fucking  _ stole _ it?” 

“Looks like,” Doakes confirmed. “A pretty good sized bag, too. No telling how much was in here.” 

“I’m almost there. Is he okay?” 

Doakes turned to the figure watching him.

“You breathing, Morgan?” he asked. 

“Why are you here?” Dexter asked him. “I thought you were Deb.” 

“She’s on the radio,” Doakes told him, before bringing it back up and telling Debra, “He’s high as shit, no doubt, but he’s talking fine. Whatever made him sick is alright enough now.”

_ “He got sick?” _

“Just get here,” Doakes said, setting the radio aside, and approached Dexter, grabbing the side of his head to look at his eyes. 

Tiny pinprick pupils stared back at him. 

“Dark as fuck in here, and your eyes are still fucked up,” Doakes said. “You took too fuckin’ much, Morgan, were you trying to OD? How can you even see right now?” 

Dexter gave a noncommittal hum, head lolling to one side. “Not very well."

"Guess drugs don't make you any less of a smartass," Doakes muttered. Then, to Dexter, he warned, “Your sister is on the way. She was worried as fuck about you, you owe her one hell of a goddamn apology. You’re lucky your family ain’t like mine - if I pulled some shit like this on one of my sisters it’d be a different fuckin’ story.” 

“Deb met your sisters,” Dexter murmured. “She said they were nice.” 

“Shut up, Morgan,” Doakes told him. “You wanna remember stuff, how about you remember why the fuck you’re out here, huh? You came here when Debra went missing, why? What’s in this shipyard?” 

Dexter looked at him, and Doakes found himself stricken by the look on his face - genuine, too genuine to look right on Dexter’s usually controlled face: a look of pure, hopeless grief. 

“They killed her here,” he said. 

“Nobody killed your sister, Morgan,” Doakes said. “If they had she wouldn’t’ve called me this late at night to come hunt your dumb ass down.” 

“No, no,” Dexter said, shaking his head. “No, not Deb, he didn’t really want her.” 

“The fuck are you-...”

“Biney,” Dexter started to babble, his speech getting faster and less coherent as he went. “He didn’t want Deb because of her, he wanted her because I was going to look for her if she went away and he wanted me to see him,  _ really  _ see him, not Rudy-...”

Rudy. This was about the Ice Truck killer - this was a motherfucking  _ confession.  _

“Slow down, Morgan,” Doakes warned. “Not a word of what you just said made sense. Who. Is. ‘Biney’?”

Dexter, however, covered his face with his hands, curling up. “I killed him,” he breathed, just shy of a whine. “He was going to kill her, so I killed him. Harry didn’t save him...Nobody saved him...All he wanted was the blood to go away…”

“Ice Truck Killer’s real name was found by his fingerprints as Brian Moser,” Doakes said, speaking lowly to Dexter. “Did you know him?”

“My brother,” Dexter rocked forward, hands clawing at his face. “I killed my brother…”

Brother? 

Dexter was adopted, Doakes knew, at three. Just old enough to retain memory of his biological family, or to have forgotten it all, with equal likelihood. No one ever questioned that Dexter didn’t know anything more of his origins than his first name and his orphan status. 

But…

But what if he  _ did  _ remember? What if he had been adopted alone because his brother had already been pulled from the system, dropped in an adolescent psychiatric hospital? 

Doakes needed to pull the file. It was vital - he had a solid lead, at last, on the tie he’d  _ known  _ was there. 

“Dexter!”

Doakes straightened, looking over his shoulder, as Debra ran past him, dropping to her knees in front of her brother.

“Dexter, holy shit - what happened?” she turned to Doakes. “Why is he like this?” 

“I think your brother remembers something we didn’t know he knew,” Doakes said. “He was babbling on about something - the Ice Truck Killer case.” 

Debra stiffened. “This is not the time for your stupid fucking suspicions of Dexter, okay, Sergeant? He’s freaking the fuck out and he does not need it right now and frankly, I don’t, either, so if you’d kindly shut the  _ fuck-..”  _

She cut off in a harsh gasp as Dexter’s hands suddenly seized her, dragging her forward and grabbing at her face. 

“Easy, Morgan,” Doakes warned.

“He wanted me to kill you,” he breathed, bringing Debra’s face close, resting his forehead against hers, eyes a mere inch from her wide, terrified ones. “Kill you like they killed her, and then it’s over. No blood anymore. We’d be clean.” 

Doakes reached forward, seizing Dexter and dragging him back. “You’re about the farthest fucking thing from  _ clean  _ right now, Morgan. Calm the hell down and come with us - you need to sober up before you get any fucking crazier.” 

“He was my brother,” Dexter said, looking blearily at Doakes. “She’s my sister, but he was my  _ brother _ .” 

“And trust me, I have a fuckin’ book’s worth of questions about that, too,” Doakes said. “But right now we got bigger problems, and not letting you OD on the floor of a shipping container is number fuckin’ one.” 

“He...he needs to get home,” Debra managed, still looking stunned, rubbing at the side of her jaw - Dexter’s mad grab must have hurt her. 

“He needs motherfucking rehab,” Doakes muttered, but moved nonetheless, dragging Dexter upright and forcing his arm around his shoulders to hold him standing. 

“Let’s get him to the car,” Debra said. 

“I’m sticking with you,” Doakes said. “Someone needs to stay with him at all times until he’s sober - probably after that, too. Leaving him by himself damn sure ain’t gonna work.”

“Okay,” Debra agreed, winded, as she stood up with them as well. “Okay...I’m not leaving him, either.” She looked to Doakes. “And  _ I’m _ taking him home. No more fucking questions. He doesn’t need it right now.” 

“Right now is the best time for questions,” Doakes muttered, starting toward the entrance of the shipyard. “He doesn’t have the presence of mind to bullshit. I got more information about him from three minutes of high-as-fuck rambling than I have from years of knowing the fucker.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re shit out of luck,” Debra said. “Nothing he was saying makes any actual sense. He’s just-...” Her voice broke, and she tried again. “He’s just high, and upset. We don’t have a brother.” 

_ “You _ don’t,” Doakes told her.  _ “He _ might.”

_ “We  _ don’t,” Debra stressed again. “Let’s just... get him to the car. He needs...fuck, I don’t even know what he needs. Not to be here, at least.” 

“I’m gonna pull history on that cargo container,” Doakes told her. “He might’ve been using it-...”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Doakes,” Debra snapped. “Give it a rest, will you? Look-...” she huffed out a frustrated breath. “I’m grateful you came to help, okay? I am. But he  _ does not need this  _ right now. He said he’s been doing this for  _ years…  _ I’m worried that maybe, when he realized he was really going to have to quit…”

“You think an OD might’ve been what he was going for,” Doakes realized. “...Shit. Hate to say it, but it would make sense. He took more than he’s used to, that’s for sure - throwing up outside the container, freaking out like that… if he didn’t hit his max dose, he damn sure came close.” 

“And we’ll find out,” Debra said. “When he’s  _ sober.”  _

“Alright, alright,” Doakes sighed...and then paused, looking to his side. “You’re being awfully fuckin’ quiet over there, Morgan.” 

The weight against his side grew heavier as it slumped, unresponsive, against him. 

“Oh,” Doakes muttered. “That’s fuckin’ great.” 

The Morgans fucking owed him for this…

...Unless he finally found out what Dexter was hiding. 

That... _ that  _ would be worth it. 


	2. Chapter 2

His throat burned, his mouth tasted acrid, the room around him seemed to hum with an unpleasant static, and Dexter had no immediate memory of where he was or how he'd come to be there. 

His skin was crawling, and his muscles sore underneath. He had no idea if he wanted to scratch or rub away the feelings, or if it would be better to simply lie there and wait for them to leave him be.

And then, the decision was made for him, as a sudden sickness seized him, prompting him to bolt upright and scramble for his bathroom door, dropping down before his toilet to be sick. 

On the bright side, he spared a moment to think, he was at least in his own apartment, even if he hadn't a single memory of coming back to it. 

Back to it, because he'd left it, with a purpose in mind. A plan, half-baked and desperate, that he couldn't believe he'd actually gone through with.

He couldn't even remember most of it. He'd ended up in the shipyard, and from there…

A hand touched his back, and he jumped in surprise, succeeding in nothing but catching his knee hard on the side of the toilet and stirring up another wave of nausea. 

"Sorry, sorry!" Debra said, quickly. "I thought you would've heard me."

He should have. He was usually a lot more attentive, especially in his own space, given how many secrets he kept there, but it was hard to focus on anything other than the sick feeling in him. 

"Fuck," Debra swore, as he heaved again. "Are you like this every time?" Her hand returned to his back, ever so gently. "Or is it just because you took so much?"

"He probably  _ did  _ OD," a second voice commented, and Dexter stiffened. 

Very slowly, he turned his head, looking to the doorway of the bathroom. 

"What is he doing here?" Dexter asked Debra. 

"She called me when she couldn't find your dumb ass," Doakes said. "You have reached a whole new level of fucking up, Morgan. Stealing from the evidence locker, breaking into a shipyard, taking enough smack that even your tolerance wasn't shit-..."

"I didn't overdose," Dexter grit out. "It wasn't enough for that. My body weight-..."

"You ran the fucking numbers on it?" Doakes exclaimed. "It's not an exact science, Morgan. If your tolerance was lower than you thought it was-.."

"But it  _ wasn't.  _ I'm…" 

He stopped, breathing heavily. 

"Fine?" Doakes suggested. "Is that what you were gonna say? Sitting on your bathroom floor puking your guts out because your body just can't take any more, that's 'fine' to you?"

"Dex," Debra said, catching his attention and bringing it back to her. "You could've fucking died. When you called…"

"I called you?"

Debra huffed. "You seriously don't remember? Do you remember talking to us when we picked you up?" 

Dexter remembered a lot of vague impressions, like a distant dream. A lot of them were memories of things he was fairly certain hadn't happened, images of dead men's faces and blood-soaked shipping container. 

"No," he said. "What did I say?"

Debra turned to the side, looking to Doakes. 

"I'm not saying shit," Doakes told her. "Not till I know how much of it was drugs and how much of it was real."

Dexter's stomach seized, but in a much different way then the one that had led him there. "What does that mean?" He asked. "What did I say?" 

If he trapped himself- if he said something too true-...

This was the worst plan he'd ever come up with, by far. 

"Worried, there, Morgan?" Doakes goaded. "Something you're hiding?"

"Fuck off," Dexter muttered. He brought his hands up, scrubbing at his face. "I...What time is it? We need to get to work…"

"You want to go to work?" Debra exclaimed. "Like  _ this?" _

"The case," Dexter said. "They're swamped, I can't-..."

"Typically I'd say blood splatter isn't completely fuckin vital," Doakes said. "But I'm not leaving you here by yourself, and you and me-.." he gestured between himself and Debra, "Are definitely needed, so we can't babysit him. It's drag him into work or find a nice rehab to keep a watch on him."

"I'm not going to a hospital," Dexter spat. "I'm fine." 

"You aren't fine," Doakes argued, "but I'm not your goddamm nursemaid, either, so fuck it. You wanna work? Get in the motherfucking car. Let Masuka keep an eye on your dumb ass instead of us for a few hours."

"A fate worse than death," Debra joked weakly. 

Dexter scrubbed at his face again, before stilling, looking to Debra. 

She looked terrified. Wide eyes, dark circles beneath them, the bruising there matching-...

Dexter reached out, going to touch the side of Debra's jaw, stilling a hair's breadth away as she flinched. 

"You have a bruise," he said. "Did...did  _ I..?" _

"You grabbed her," Doakes said. "You were having one hell of a bad trip, it looked like, and you decided she was too far away to hear your ranting."

"It's fine," Debra said quickly. "You were super freaked out, and I got in your face. I'll be okay. You're just...super fucking strong, apparently."

“Jesus,” Dexter breathed. “Deb, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know I would be that bad - I didn’t think-...”

“Damn right you didn’t think,” Doakes said. At Dexter’s furious look, he raised his hands. “Hey, I get it.”

Dexter blinked, surprised. “You...do?”

“You’re an addict, Morgan,” Doakes said. “I’ve seen what that can do to people. It’s not an excuse, but it’s an explanation. Now we know you’re too deep in this for a couple of late-night meetings to clean up, so maybe we can do better.”

Dexter’s stomach turned over. “You…”

“You got it,” Doakes said. “I’m not making your sister put up with you alone. You want me off your case? Prove you don’t need me watching you, and I’ll mind my own fuckin’ business. Right now, though, you just got your tail back on. I’m not letting you do this shit again.” 

“I don’t need you following me around,” Dexter snapped to him, shifting to try and sit up a bit more, to seem less pathetic than he felt, slumped over a toilet. “I-...”

“Nearly killed yourself, that’s what,” Doakes said. “It’s not up for fuckin’ negotiation.” 

Dexter looked to Debra, almost pleading. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, quietly. “Dex,  _ you nearly died.”  _

“I didn’t!” Dexter said. “I knew what I was doing-...”

“That’s the fucking problem, Dexter!” Debra shouted. “You’ve been doing this, and I never knew about it! If you kept doing it until it killed you, I wouldn’t fucking know! I can’t let that happen. You’re my brother, Dexter, and I love you, and I’m not letting you do this shit anymore.” 

Dexter took a long, steadying breath, looking away from them. 

This plan had been stupid, and desperate, and it had backfired  _ hard.  _

Still….

Doakes on his tail, Debra watching him at all times...that could  _ work,  _ if he could stick it out. No one would be able to suspect him of his true extracurriculars if they thought Dexter was under watch. 

Further than that, if he could get loose at some point, and act again-...a plant, from the ‘Bay Harbor Butcher’ directly to the FBI, showing he wasn’t cowed...He’d have a solid alibi clearing him. They could step right onto his boat and decide that was how the bodies were dumped, and he could pretend it wasn’t him taking it out. Plenty of people rented out their boats, and if he was taking under-the-table cash to fuel an equally illegal habit…

As incredibly annoying as it was, it was a perfect alibi. 

He huffed out a sigh, slumping down in a show of defeat. “Can we just go to work, now?” 

“Yeah,” Debra said, slightly shakily. “Yeah, that’s-..they probably need us.” She reached out, touching Dexter’s shoulder. “But if you need me, or a break, or anything-...”

“I’ll be fine, Deb,” Dexter said, getting unsteadily to his feet. He still felt disgusting and heavily sick, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle, so long as he got these two out of his space before they started poking around. “I just-...” 

He stopped, processing another thought, and cursed under his breath.

“What?” Debra asked. 

“My car,” Dexter said. “I probably left it-...”

“We’ll get it later,” Debra said. “Ride with me, today.” 

“Ride with  _ me.”  _

Dexter turned incredulous eyes on Doakes.  _ “You?”  _

“I have a few things I wanna clear up,” Doakes said. “Best you and me talk while we’ve got the chance. Make sure that by the time we reach the station, I know what I’m looking for.” 

Dexter’s stomach turned over. “And what is it you think you’re looking for?” 

“Get in the car,” Doakes told him. “Find out.”

Shit.

Shit, shit, _ shit. _

“....I’m gonna take a shower,” Dexter said. 

Debra looked to Doakes, looking concerned.

“Christ, Deb,” Dexter sighed. “Search the fucking bathroom, I don’t keep anything in here.”

“Where  _ do _ you keep it?” Doakes asked. 

“Right now?” Dexter said. “Nowhere. And before that, not here. I work with the police, why would I purposely sit on evidence of a crime, waiting for someone to stumble into it? Nothing stays buried.” 

“I don’t think dad really wanted that lesson applied to heroin, Dex,” Debra said. 

“And I don’t think it has been,” Doakes said. “You can’t think I’m dumb enough to believe you’re not hiding something in here, Morgan.” 

“You got me,” Dexter said, dryly. “There’s actually a collection of sex toys under the baseboards.”

Doakes shook his head, rolling his eyes heavily. “It cute you think you’re funny, Morgan, but I’m fuckin’ serious.” Looking to Debra, he said, “We should pull this place apart when we’ve got the chance.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” Dexter said. “It’s  _ my  _ apartment.” 

“What,” Doakes said, “You want us to come back with a warrant? I’ve got the evidence bag you filched, Morgan, I could get one and more.” 

Dexter winced. 

“Yeah,” Doakes said. “That’s what I thought. We’ll take a look, later. Take your shower, don’t bash your head in on the titles or do anything fucking stupid, and we’ll go to work and pretend we didn’t drag your dumbass out of a shipping container babbling about your tragic fuckin’ backstory.” 

Dexter’s stomach clenched hard in panic. “My what?” 

_ “Shower, _ Morgan,” Doakes ordered. “I’ll tell you all about it on the ride over.” 

There was a smug hint to his expression that boded very ill for Dexter. 

  
  
  
  


About twenty minutes later, a cleaner and appropriately dressed Dexter climbed awkwardly into the passenger seat of Doakes’ car. 

“Still waiting on my tire, by the way,” Doakes told him as he buckled in. “Asshole.”

Dexter looked at him, unrepentant. “Will buying you a new tire get you to leave me the fuck alone?” 

“No goddamn way,” Doakes replied easily. “Less money for you to spend shooting up, though.” 

Dexter eyed him. “Aren’t you Jewish?” 

Doakes shot him a bewildered look. “Where the fuck did that come from?” 

“You swear as much as Deb,” Dexter said. “And you just said  _ goddamn,  _ which I thought was a big  _ no.”  _

“And you’re the motherfucking expert?” Doakes countered. “For your information, Rabbi Morgan, I watch my mouth around my mother and sisters and anybody else who doesn’t need to hear that shit, and I don’t give a damn about telling the rest of you what the fuck I really think.” 

“And the ‘goddamn,’ is…?”

“God damned,” Doakes said. “The fuck is more religious than God turning up to tell you you’ve fucked up? ‘God damn’ is the story behind half the fucking Torah.” He shot a glance sideways at Dexter again. “You satisfied? Want me to recite motherfucking halakha? It’s none of your business what the fuck I chose to believe and what I decide isn’t worth shit. I’m more interested in hearing how the son of Harry fucking Morgan grows up to believe in stealing smack from an evidence locker and shooting up in an abandoned freighter.” 

“A freighter is a ship,” Dexter muttered. “I was in the container.”

“What I  _ really  _ wanna know,” Doakes said, seemingly ignoring him completely, “is what you meant when you told me Brian fucking Moser was your brother.” 

Dexter’s heart stopped. “...What?”

“And I’m going by the records later today, and pulling everything we got on his family,” Doakes said. “And I’m seeing if he had any siblings that might’ve got picked up by a nice friendly cop-..”

“Stay the fuck out of it,” Dexter interrupted. “It’s none of your business.”

“I knew you were tied to the Ice Truck Killer,” Doakes said. “Now that I might figure out  _ how?  _ Fuck you, I’m not giving that up.”

“What do you expect to learn?” Dexter snapped. “You want to know the truth? Harry had an informant in a cartel, she got killed, and he took in the one of her kids who was young enough not to be  _ completely  _ fucked up by it.” 

“And you knew you two were related, knew who he was, and didn’t say anything?” 

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Dexter said. “I wasn’t sure that Rudy was Brian until it was already too late to do anything but track her down.” 

“And you hunted him down on your own, because you’d rather keep your long lost brother alive than catch a fucking killer?” 

Dexter looked away. 

“No, no, don’t you fucking clam up now,” Doakes said. “Tell me. What the  _ fuck  _ did you think you’d accomplish, going after him-...”

“I killed him.”

Doakes stopped. “...What?”

“That’s the confession you wanted, isn’t it?” Dexter said, looking back to him. “He took Deb, I tracked him down, we fought, he died.”

“Fought?” Doakes yelled. “He was hanging from the fucking ceiling, Morgan. You hung him up and  _ slit his fucking throat?”  _

“He would’ve killed Deb.”

“Turn him in to the fucking police!” Doakes shouted. 

“Like you did Curtis Barnes?” Dexter asked. “Jacques Bayard?”

“I confronted criminals, and I shot them when I had to,” Doakes said. “I didn’t turn them into a goddamn puppet show.” Doakes’s grip went white-knuckled on the wheel. “...Were you high? When you went after him, when you killed him… Were you using?” 

“Does it make it any better if I say yes?” Dexter returned, tiredly. “Turn me in, if you want, Doakes. They won’t take me in. Nobody missed Brian when he was gone except for me.”

“You  _ missed _ him?” Doakes said, incredulous.

“He was my brother,” Dexter replied. “You knew him as a serial killer draining people of blood for fun. I knew him as my older brother, who sat with me in a shipping container full of our mom’s blood for days until someone finally came, and they sent him away because fixing him the way they fixed me would have been too much effort. He was fucked up, and he deserved to die, but he was still my family. I’m not sorry for wishing it had been different.” 

Doakes’ jaw worked as he grit his teeth, and Dexter turned away, fixing his gaze firmly out the window. 

Telling the truth was a gamble, but...Again, if he could convince Doakes that everything to be known about him was already found, he’d be home free. If he’d already confessed, there was no saving it. Best to cut ties with the secret and set it loose, freeing himself of its burden. 

The ‘Bay Harbor Butcher’ could not be revealed, but everything else…Dexter was safest hiding in plain sight. 

If Doakes, the single person most suspicious of him, trusted him, he couldn’t be safer. 

All he had to do was wait, until he took the bait.

They’d almost reached the station, before Doakes spoke again. “How old were you?”

“Three,” Dexter said. “The file’s under ‘Laura Moser.’” 

“The container we found you in,” Doakes said. “That’s the one-..?”

“That’s where she died, yes,” Dexter said. 

“And you go  _ there  _ to shoot up?” 

“Not usually,” Dexter said. “I...move around. Pick different places.” A thought occurred to him, and he continued, trying to sound reluctant, “I have a boat.”

“A _ boat?” _

“My heart’s been racing the past few days,” Dexter said. “They’re doing all the marina searches - I went out to the docs and scrubbed my boat down. Pulled everything out of it, got rid of all my stuff. Then they turned up and said they’d been filming the docs…”

“And you’ve been caught on camera,” Doakes finished. “Fuck, Morgan, you have really fucked it up now. No wonder you were so damn twitchy.”

“I thought about deleting the footage,” Dexter admitted. 

“You’d get rid of vital evidence to clear your own slate?” 

“Don’t act surprised,” Dexter said. “I stole heroin from the evidence locker. I don’t make the best choices under pressure.” 

“I shoulda worn a damned wire,” Doakes muttered. “Getting more from you then I could’ve dreamed I would, and no way to prove it.” 

“A drug test and a search of the evidence locker,” Dexter said. “That’s all it takes to seal my fate. Every lie I’ve ever told, everything I’ve ever done...wasted. Everything Harry taught me-...”

“Your fucking father?” Doakes exclaimed. “You telling me you used his teachings to figure out how to  _ evade the fucking cops?”  _ He paused, before saying, “You said something, actually. When you were high as shit - something about him dying because of you?”

Dexter grit his teeth. “Haven’t I told you enough?” 

“Not even remotely,” Doakes said. “Tell me, Morgan.” 

“Fine,” Dexter bit out. “Harry thought that maybe doing something small would be enough for me. Keep me under control, keep me from going like Brian did.” He waved a hand through the air. “When he caught me, when he saw how far I was willing to go to feed that habit...he couldn’t take it. He blamed himself. He killed himself.” 

“Fuck…” Doakes breathed. “What does that mean? ‘How far you were willing to go’?”

Dexter gave him an unimpressed look. 

“You’re something else, Morgan,” Doakes breathed.

The car turned into the parking lot for the station, Doakes taking a moment to focus on neatly pulling into his usual parking place, before shutting the car off and turning fully to Dexter.

“I’m gonna pull those records,” he said. “I’m going to read everything I can get my hands on, and then we’re gonna fuckin’ talk again.” 

“And when should I get ready for them to raid the lab for evidence on me?” Dexter asked.

“For now?” Doakes said. “...Don’t.”

Dexter raised his eyebrows. 

“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that,” Doakes said, warningly. “We aren’t fucking friends, Morgan, and I’m not lying for your dumb ass. But as far as I can tell, you’re right. They’re not going to haul your ass off to jail for taking a serial killer off our hands, and I already promised your sister I wouldn’t say shit about the drugs. So you go about your fuckin’ business, and I’ll look into this on my own, and you can  _ bet  _ that your fucking curfew still fucking applies.” 

“Understood,” Dexter said. “So I can go, now?” 

“Get out of my fucking car, Morgan.”

Biting back the urge to smile, Dexter got out of the car, heading toward the building. 

“Whoa, what the fuck?”

Dexter stopped, looking to the side, where Masuka was getting out of his own car. 

“I thought the only time we’d see you in Doakes’ car was in a body bag, man,” Masuka said. 

Dexter looked back over his shoulder, watching Doakes get out of his car, and then back to Masuka.

“Day’s not over yet,” he said. “There’s still time.” 

“I heard that,” Masuka said. “Hey, have you seen-...”

Dexter spared one more glance over his shoulder, meeting Doakes’ measured stare for a second.

He couldn’t tell if he’d made a colossal mistake, or the best move in his life. 

For now, though, it seemed Doakes was his unlikely ally. 


	3. Chapter 3

“Morgan,” Lundy greeted, as soon as Debra stepped through the door. “Don’t get settled, we’re heading to a crime scene.” 

Debra blinked at him. “Another copycat kill?” she asked. 

“Not from what I hear,” Lundy told her, jerking his head to one side in a gesture for her to follow as he headed out. Once she was at his side, matching his long strides, he continued, “Apparently, the body that turned up was none other than Ken Olson.” 

“Our suspect?” Debra exclaimed. “Jesus fuck. Guess we had it right, then.” 

Lundy turned slightly, quirking an eyebrow. 

“What?” Debra asked, slightly defensive. “If he was the copycat, it makes sense the Butcher would take him out. He fits the profile, and I don’t imagine the guy liked the competition.” 

“A fair assessment,” Lundy said. “Though I doubt he saw it as competition. Probably just didn’t like Olson making him look bad.” 

“He does that on his own,” Debra muttered. Then, louder, she asked, “Where was the body?”

“Olson’s house,” Lundy said. Reaching the doors, Lundy paused, looking to Debra. “Can you get your brother?” 

Debra’s heart clenched, her stomach rolling. “What?”

“Your brother,” Lundy repeated. “I want him along.” 

Debra frowned. “Why?”

Lundy shot her a look.

Flushing slightly, she shifted back, torn between bitter that Dexter was always the focus and terrified about putting a recently-OD’d addict right under the nose of the FBI. 

“Nevermind,” she muttered. “Doesn’t matter. You want Dexter, I’ll-...”

A hand caught her arm at the elbow, and she looked back, eyebrows raised. 

“Yes?”

“It has nothing to do with Dexter,” Lundy told her, in a low voice. “But if I could get away with it, he’d be on our team, just because I can’t  _ stand  _ Masuka.” 

Debra let out a surprised laugh. “Oh, that’s gold. I thought you just had the same hard-on for Dexter everybody else does.” 

Lundy hummed, eyeing her curiously. “Your brother is popular, then?” 

“Everyone loves Dex,” Debra confirmed. “Well, except Doakes, but he’s a fucking prick anyway.” Then, remembering how their evening had gone, she winced, correcting, “Or, well, they’re getting on fine now, I think.”

She  _ hoped _ .

“I should think so,” Lundy said. “Not one to partake in office gossip, but there were whispers about them coming in together.” 

“Ah, yeah,” Debra said. “Dex had some, uh, car trouble. Doakes gave him a ride.” 

“Not you?”

Debra shifted. “I-...I’ve got the Butcher case, and all, so we might be working different hours. He didn’t need to wait on me if we got tied up.” 

“I see,” Lundy said. He looked behind her, over her shoulder, into the back of the room. “I think I see your brother in his lab. If you would…?”

“Yeah,” Debra said. “Yeah, I’ll get him.” 

He gave her a small smile that made her insides twist again, and she dismissed herself, heading quickly across the room to Dexter’s lab. 

The door was unlocked, so she stepped through it easily, watching Dexter glance up to look at her before returning his attention to his microscope. 

“It’s been twenty minutes, Deb,” Dexter said, turning a knob. “What did I do?” 

“Lundy wants you to come with us,” Debra said. 

Dexter looked at her again, eyebrow quirked. “Like on your date?”

Debra reached out, smacking him in the arm, getting a halfhearted ‘ow’ and a laugh for her trouble. “Shut the fuck up,” she said, though it was also through laughter. “To a crime scene, asshole. Butcher chopped up our copycat.” 

Dexter hesitated a second, eyes flicking away a second, eyebrows knitting together, looking confused. 

“Yeah, I know, right?” Debra said. “I wanna know how he is getting police records.” 

“No, no, I just-...” Dexter shook his head, smiling apologetically at her, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It doesn’t matter. Why does he need me? Blood?” 

“It’s apparently to escape Masuka,” Debra told him. “I can’t really blame him. I also prefer crime scenes without dicks out every few minutes.” 

“Poor guy,” Dexter breathed. “Ah, well, let me grab all my stuff and I’ll come along.” 

“Got it,” Debra agreed. Then, hesitating in the doorway, she asked a tentative, “...You okay?” 

Dexter shot her an exasperated look. “I’m fine,” he said. “I can handle myself, I promise. Nothing to worry about.” 

He gestured outward with his hands, but Debra’s eyes followed one, watching the faintest of tremors in it. 

It dropped back down to the desk almost immediately, and when she looked back, Dexter turned away. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “I’ll be right there.” 

“Alright,” she agreed, softly, before letting herself out.

  
  
  


There were a few things you definitely did not want to happen when you were a renowned serial killer, and one highest among them was  _ forgetting  _ a victim. 

To be fair, he hadn’t really forgotten. He knew, distantly, that he’d killed Ken Olson. That had been part one of a two-part brilliant plan that actually turned out to be extremely stupid. Intelligence of his actions aside, though, he’d  _ known  _ that before taking the heroin, he’d broken into Olson’s house and killed him. Originally, he’d planned to take the body somewhere symbolic, like the shipyard, but he ended up voting instead to reveal nothing further about himself in the act, and save his personal haunts for the  _ other  _ nighttime vice. 

Somehow, in his very bad experiment, it had slipped his mind why exactly he’d chosen to do what he did, and how exactly he went about doing it. As such, until Debra brought it up, he’d totally forgotten that at some point today, his crime scene would be unearthed, and they’d all be standing around, looking at his handiwork, speculating what sort of monster could do the things he did so easily. 

It had been a good kill, though. The moment of realization that he would be comfortable, content, even if he’d simply walked away, was very freeing. The absence of that desperate hunger was such a relief. He was able to take Olson out simply because it was something that needed to be done, satisfactory in the same manner as buckling down and finishing household chores. Not fun, per say, but far from wasted effort. The sort of thing you could feel good about for a few days.

Reflecting on it almost made up for the fact that he was officially unable to deny that his dose the night before had definitely been a mild overdose, given that even though it was his only dose ever taken, his hands were shaking and his brow were sweating as though he were starting in on a proper withdrawal. 

At least, he chose to believe it was the aftermath of an overdose, because finding out he could get addicted to something so easily was oddly embarrassing as a concept. Then again, he doubted most people started off by calculating the highest amount they could inject and survive...but still, he’d prefer to think he’d simply overdone it, and hadn’t added another layer of genuine issues into his life. Compare them as he may, Dexter didn’t really feel like trading the life of a loosely defined vigilante for that of a drug addict. 

It would, at least, lend credit to his story...as long as he didn’t arouse the suspicion of the many other cops and federal agents around him. 

At least  _ that  _ was something he had practice with.

  
  
  
  


“So….”

Doakes looked up from the papers on his desk, to Maria, resting against the edge of his desk. “So?” he prompted. 

“Word has it you brought a guest with you this morning,” Maria said. 

“What are we, in fuckin high school?” Doakes said. “Got a fucking rumor mill running in here?” 

“Relax,” Maria told him. “I’m just messing with you. You and Dexter don’t get along, so it was just surprising.”

“I’d get along with him just fine if he’d quit acting like such a fucking freak,” Doakes muttered, glancing toward the lab at the back of the room, looking for Dexter’s silhouette beyond the glass….

...And sitting up quickly, eyes locked on the empty lab, demanding of Maria, “Where the fuck is Morgan?” 

Maria snorted. “Why do you care?”

Doakes shot her a look. “I don’t have time for games, LaGuerta,” Doakes said. “I told his sister I’d keep an eye on him, I need to know where he  _ is.” _

“He went to the crime scene,” she said. “Lundy keeps asking for him, for some reason. Why are you looking after Dexter?” 

Doakes shook his head. “It’s a long fuckin’ story.”

“I’ve got time.” 

“Yeah, well, I don’t,” Doakes said. “I’m one man homicide over here with everybody working on this Butcher shit, and I just learned that I better not need any labs, because both the lab techs are fucking gone.”

“Maybe we should get a third,” Maria joked.

“Maybe you should fucking fire Masuka,” Doakes countered. 

Maria rolled her eyes. “He’s abrasive, but he’s good at his job. The day someone files a complaint, I’ll deal with him.” 

“No one’s complained?” Doakes asked, incredulous. “Not a single fuckin person is sick of his shit?” 

“Oh, they complain,” Maria said. “But unofficially. They won’t take it any farther than a personal conversation, and unless someone is willing to be the one who puts down history of harassment to paper, there’s no reason to remove him.” 

“Except,” Doakes said, “that Lundy is using him being a piece of shit as an excuse to gut our departments even further, just on the off chance that we get so short-staffed we hand over the investigation willingly.” 

“You’re reading too much into it,” Maria said. “We all want the case solved. I’m happy to cooperate as long as they’re willing to keep us in the loop.” 

“Yeah, well,” Doakes said, “I’m not happy about it, that’s for damn sure.” He looked toward the lab again, before shaking his head, irritated, and returning his attention to his case files. “Two fucking lab techs,” he muttered. “He think he’s gonna find a fucking puddle of our killer’s blood?”

“That would be something,” Maria said. “You sure you can’t tell me why you’re watching Dexter?” 

“Why do you give a shit?” Doakes asked, looking back up at her.

Maria frowned. “That’s not fair,” she told him. “We’re  _ friends _ , James. And I care about my employees. All of them, Dexter included.” 

“Well, it’s none of my fucking business, to start with,” Daokes said. “Debra asked for my help, and I’m giving it. I’m not gossiping about him.” 

Maria tipped her head, narrowing her eyes. “How much of this is because you don’t want to tell Dexter’s business,” she asked, “and how much is because I’m his boss?”

“Drop it, Maria,” Doakes told her. 

She gave a short nod, more to herself than anything - that was an answer all by itself. 

“I need to get back to this,” Doakes said, gesturing to his files. “Did you need something, or you just gonna stand there like a fucking creep?” 

“Watch it,” she told him, though it was in a playful tone. “I’m not Dexter. I’m not gonna let you talk to me like that.”

“And he does?” Doakes asked. “He might not square up about it, but he is damn sure a smartass. Only thing he gets off on more than blood is pissing me off.” 

“That’s more than I need to know.” 

Doakes gave her an unimpressed look.

Maria just smiled in response. “Get back to work,” she said, turning to go.

“That’s what I was fucking trying to do,” she heard him mutter as she walked away. 

Something was going on between James and Dexter, she was certain - James wasn’t one to do spontaneous favors of his own accord, and there was no reason for  _ him  _ to be the one Debra contacted in an emergency. 

If there was an  _ official  _ reason James didn’t want her to know about it…

As curious as she was, she also very strongly wanted to cling to plausible deniability if something was wrong. 

Still...if she kept an ear out, that was her business. 


	4. Chapter 4

Dexter's car being absent, he rode to the crime scene with Debra...which led to a very uncomfortable silence as she pretended not to notice the fact that he couldn't sit still and Dexter pretended not to be simultaneously freezing cold and sweating. 

All in all, heroin was not one of his better ideas. 

"So," Debra said, eventually, when the silence was driving them both insane. "What did Doakes ask about?"

Dexter flexed his hands, stretching his fingers out and then bringing them closed in a fist, pumping them this way a couple of times, trying to regain control of the tremors in them. "Just...stuff about my history, that's all. Putting the pieces together."

Debra's grip on the wheel shifted, and a moment later, she told him in a carefully measured tone, "He asked about the Ice Truck Killer, didn't he?"

"Don't worry about it, Deb," Dexter said. 

"Don't fucking baby me, Dex," Debra snapped. "I promise I can take it, or I wouldn't fucking ask. He thinks you were involved and he wouldn't listen to me when I said you weren't and now he's trying to fit into his stupid theories the fact that you've apparently been addicted to fucking  _ heroin.  _ Now what the  _ fuck  _ did he ask?!"

Dexter watched her warily. She...was very upset. 

Dexter was not great with upset. 

"What did I say to you?" He asked, dodging the question. "Last night. I said something that bothered you, didn't I?"

Debra's lips pressed in a thin line, and she didn't respond. 

"Deb?"

"Did you do it on purpose?"

Dexter blinked. "What?"

"Did. You." Debra said, pronouncing each word very deliberately. "Do. It. On. Fucking.  _ Purpose?"  _

"Do what?" Dexter asked. 

"OD, Dexter!" Debra said, slamming a hand down on the wheel. "Did you take too much on purpose?"

Dexter caught on, heart sinking. "I didn't try to kill myself, Deb," he told her, gently as he was able. "I made a bad call. It happens."

"It happens?" Debra echoed, voice climbing higher. "It fucking  _ happens?  _ Dexter I thought you were going to  _ die.  _ You look like  _ hell  _ right now. I want you as far away from the goddamn FBI as possible, and I'm gonna fucking kill Masuka for the fact that you can't stay in the lab instead of trying to take fucking DNA samples from a dead body while you're shaking like a fucking leaf."

Dexter flexed his hands again. "I'm okay."

"No! You aren't!" She snapped back. "You told me dad's death was your fault. You were talking about having a brother. You fucking- you talked about killing me, Dex."

Dexter's blood ran cold. "I...what?"

"You said Rudy wanted you to kill me," Debra said slowly, voice shaky. "You said something about blood making you  _ clean." _

Dexter’s stomach dropped out. “I-...” He became hyper-aware of his shaking, of the restless feeling in him, of all the effects of his bad decision, and became suddenly  _ furious.  _ How could he have thought this was a decent plan? How could he not have found a different alibi? All he’d needed was a positive - he could’ve pretended it was mostly out of his system if there was any complication with him taking a low dose. 

Hindsight was 20-20, as always.

“I’d never-...” Dexter grit his teeth. “I wouldn’t hurt you, Deb. I would never hurt you.”

“I didn’t think you would,” Debra said...though it was oddly tense.

_ The bruising on her jaw,  _ Dexter realized. 

He’d  _ already  _ hurt her. 

He wasn’t sure how much of the shaking in his hands was heroin, anymore. 

“I’m not-...I’m not  _ like him,  _ Deb,” Dexter said. “I’m not... _ empty  _ like that. Not completely. I’m not  _ right  _ but I can still- some part of me still  _ cares.”  _

“...You’re not making sense,” Debra said, slowly. “Empty? Dex, are you…” She took her eyes off the road a moment to look at him, asking him softly. “Are you okay?”

Dexter looked away. The eye contact made him ache, and he had enough things hurting already. “I thought I was,” he answered, honestly. “I had it together. Everything was fine. I had my life, and I had...I had  _ it,  _ that darker part, and I kept it locked away and only fell back to it when I was completely alone. I didn’t-...nobody I cared about saw it. When I was there, nothing had to matter...and now it does. It doesn’t stop mattering, no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing.” He clenched his shaking hands into fists, though it was no longer about controlling the tremors. “And  _ it’s  _ been drug out, exposed, and now there’s no line anymore, and-...and that scares the hell out of me, Deb.” He carefully did not turn to look at her - he didn’t want to see her face, not while he was being honest. He’d never cared for honesty, and he’d already bared himself twice in one day. “I can’t bury it again, can’t hide it...But I don’t know what I am if I lose it. I’m not empty because I let it out. If I’m alone, if it hollows me out like it did him...I can’t guarantee who I’ll end up.” 

“You’re not  _ alone,  _ Dex,” Debra said, her voice choked. Before he could think better, he looked, horrified to see she was crying openly, whole face pinched. “People love you. You may not know much about yourself, but, fuck-  _ I do.  _ You’re a fucking amazing brother, you’re a goddamn genius, you’re  _ excellent  _ at police work-..”

_ I only do well at that because I know what I’m looking for,  _ Dexter thought...but even his day of honesty had a line, and he kept that to himself. 

“You’re a huge fucking nerd who makes dumb jokes and buys the whole office donuts and fucking- fucking  _ bowls,  _ Dexter. Who the fuck goes bowling?” 

“...Lots of people?” Dexter answered, weakly. “There are whole teams.”

“Teams of  _ nerds,  _ Dex,” Debra told him, but to his relief, some humor had crept back into it. “You’re a dork, and you’re my brother, and I love you, and you are  _ more than this.  _ Okay?” 

_ Those are acts,  _ Dexter thought.  _ I’m a good brother because Harry told me to be. My brain works fast out of survival. Police work is second nature to a criminal, dumb jokes cover up my fucked up humor, the donuts keep everyone from listening to Doakes’ shit, bowling nights provide a great alibi-... _

It startled him to realize it, but he’d felt better talking to Doakes. At least he had not pretended the dark parts of Dexter were small and separate - he had recognized Dexter for what he was, the monster inside, and simply accepted that it was, perhaps, a necessary evil. 

Hopefully, though, he’d never learn the depths...or change his mind, like Harry had. 

“We, uh,” Dexter said, softly, weakly raising a hand to point out the window. “We passed our turn.”

“Fuck!”

Dexter’s stomach had already rejected everything that morning, which was good, because otherwise it would have made some further protests to the sharp u-turn Debra took to get back.

At least he could stop telling the truth. 

  
  
  
  


Debra made straight for Lundy on their arrival, but Dexter felt it was probably best to keep his distance, instead going to find Masuka.

"Whoa, Dexter, my man," Masuka greeted. "Man, Lundy's got a bigger hardon for you than he does for your sister." 

"Don't tell her that," Dexter warned. "I'm here to help, looks like. Where do you need me?" 

"Everywhere, dude," Masuka said. "Look at this shit."

He gestured to the side, where the main crime scene markers were. 

The viscera was so familiar, it took him a second to realize what Masuka was referring to. 

"Ah," Dexter said. "Looks like the body was-..."

_ "Shredded," _ Masuka said. "He's fucking Hamburger Helper." 

"Not very helpful," Dexter muttered. Then, more properly, he asked, "Butcher doesn't leave a whole lot of blood. Not sure what I can tell him that you can't."

"Nah, dude," Masuka said, lowering his voice. "It's your sister."

Dexter frowned, looking to him in confusion. "Deb?"

"Yeah," Masuka said, sounding  _ ecstatic  _ to be delivering a new piece of gossip. "I wasn't joking, man, Lundy totally wants to hit that."

Dexter blinked. "Uh….gross?"

"Right?!" Masuka laughed, before abruptly dropping his voice again, saying, "That's why he's gotta take you everywhere, see? You're her chaperone. Walking, talking bonerkill."

"...Great," Dexter said, weakly. 

"You're the old lady in Granny panties, man," Masuka told him, hitting him lightly on the arm. "You're on team Nut Buster Nada."

"Okay, I get it," Dexter said. "You can stop now. I already felt sick from Deb's driving." 

"Oh, yeah," Masuka said. "What's with the carpool? You never ride with somebody."

"I, ah," Dexter grimaced. "I fucked up my car, the other night. I called Deb, but she didn't know what to do, so she ended up asking Doakes…?" He tried to sound confused about the logic. "I don't know. They're friends, I guess, even if he, ah…"

"Hates your guts?" Masuka filled in. He gestured to the side, toward the pile of shredded copycat killer. "Wants to turn you into that?" 

_ He thinks _ I  _ wanna turn  _ him  _ into that,  _ Dexter thought. 

... _ and, honestly, he's not far off.  _

"I was going for something more mild, but yeah. Basically."

Masuka looked over Dexter's shoulder, before dropping his voice again, asking conspiratorially, "You think he'd trying to hit that, too?"

"Ugh."

"Hey, getting laid might calm him the fuck down."

"Not my sister, thanks," Dexter said. "Give me an evidence bag, so I can throw up."

"Sick?"

Dexter turned, startled, and then immediately got annoyed with himself again. That was the second time in a day he'd failed to notice someone in his space. 

Debra had seemed to catch that, too, answering from Lundy's other side, "I kinda shook him up a bit on the drive over, sorry. Dex normally drives like a grandma." 

"Because I understand the meaning of a speed  _ limit?"  _ Dexter asked, jumping on board he offered alibi gladly. 

"Nah, see," Masuka said. "I got him to think about Doakes'-..."

"Do you have anything specific you want us to look at?" Dexter interrupted by asking Lundy. "I don't have any blood spatter analysis in here, but I can do other kinds of detail breakdowns pretty well, so if there was something that stood out to you…?"

"Yeah, yeah," Lundy said, happily joining him in ignoring Masuka. "I want you to look into the treatment of the veins - blood is very contained on this scene, despite how gruesome it is. If the victim bled at all, and the blood is gone, that implies it went somewhere. There's not much someone can do to get rid of blood-soaked plastic.

_ It's called a pressure washer,  _ Dexter thought, dryly. Out loud, he gave a cheery, "Sure. There's no sign of cauterization, but he doesn't pre-bleed his victims, either. While the room was wrapped, it was probably a mess." He gestured around the room. "Someone might also want to check for any small blood spatter that might have occurred when taking the plastic down."

There wouldn't be any, because Dexter wasn't an  _ amateur,  _ so it was a safe tip. 

"I'll get someone to grab a blacklight," Lundy agreed easily. "In the meantime," he looked to his other side, to Debra. "Morgan, I want you to take a look at the cuts he made on some of the larger parts - see if you see any pattern. And, Masuka, if you'd look at some of the cuts from the abdomen? There's a change in the quality of cuts there, and I'd like to know more about it."

_ I forgot to sharpen one of my knives,  _ Dexter thought to himself.  _ I was too busy worrying about the heroin I'd pocketed at work.  _

Assignments given, Lundy moved on, going to talk with someone else. 

Taking their moment of privacy, Debra asked, "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Dexter promised. "Just work. Don't worry about me."

"What kind of shitty sister doesn't worry?"

"Uh, the younger kind?" Dexter said. "I'm supposed to look out for you, kid. There's a hierarchy."

"Tell that to your own dumb ass," she said. "And Doakes is older than both of us, so you can't argue  _ him _ that way."

"When did Doakes become my sister?"

Debra looked around the room once, verified no one was looking, and then shot Dexter the bird. "We're at a crime scene," Dexter reminded her. 

"I looked!" She defended. "Piss off. I'm gonna go look at swiss cheese boy."

"He's more shredded cheese, I think."

"It's fucking nasty, either way."

She walked off, going to start on her task. 

_ I wonder how long I should pretend to look at the veins before I tell him what they look like.  _

He'd see how long he could get away with. 


	5. Chapter 5

LAURA MOSER.

The file was decently sized and marked as heavily confidential, but it wasn't nearly as dusty as it should have been for its age. 

_ Got a good cleaning when Dexter pulled it,  _ Doakes thought, flipping it open. 

The first thing he saw was a picture of her: a mugshot of a tired-looking blonde woman. 

There were traces of Dexter in the lines around her mouth, the height of her cheekbones, possibly even the gentle slope of her nose. Other than that, she could've been any generic junkie pulled off the street. This knowledge mixed with his new knowledge of Dexter and settled low in his gut, disturbing him deeply. 

_ Wonder what her vice was,  _ he thought.  _ How much of this shit is genetic? _

He turned through the pages of the file. 

There were references to audio logs, interview recordings, all sorts of external information, but Doakes didn't need that yet. Instead, he dug for the two things he was looking for. 

First: confirmation of her working as an informant directly under Harry Morgan. 

Second…

"Fucking hell…" Doakes breathed. 

The report of her death was brutal. Cold, clinical terminology spelling out a nightmare: murder inside a shipping container, shredded with a  _ chainsaw,  _ her two young children found covered in her blood after two full days. 

Sure enough - Brian Moser's age and profile matched up with being her elder son. 

To think that the younger one, though, had been  _ Dexter… _

Doakes let out a low breath.  _ No wonder he's fucking crazy.  _

But to  _ kill  _ someone - especially so brutally - and then just...push it aside, hide it. 

Dexter high as a kite and Dexter in the throws of withdrawal had both showed James parts of the man he hadn't known about, even after all his observation. There was something manic in Dexter, and in its wake was  _ emptiness _ . 

He thought of the Dexter that came in every morning with a box of donuts and smiles for everyone, cheesy jokes and wishes of good morning. He thought of how  _ off  _ it had always felt, like he was putting on a show. 

Was that what he was covering? Did he wake up every morning, dragged out from his habit, empty and tired and defeated, and plaster on a Suburban Joe smile and roll out like nothing was wrong?

If he was honest, though...Laura Moser wasn't the parent that James was worried about. 

Dexter had talked about Harry in a way that sounded suspiciously like his habit had been  _ his  _ idea. That he'd groomed his son into a drug habit and then panicked when it got out of control. 

_ When he saw how far I was willing to go,  _ Dexter had said. 

What did that mean? What had Dexter done that Harry saw?

He'd seen a lot of people do a lot of things for drugs over the years. He really didn't want to picture Dexter doing any of them. Especially not a  _ young _ Dexter. 

He needed to know more. He needed to know what Harry Morgan had done, what part of Dexter's habit stemmed from his actions. 

Everyone remembered Harry Morgan as some kind of hero…but all James could see was Dexter's wide eyes in the dark, desperately telling him about his brother like he was waiting for-..

For a lecture?

Or for  _ approval? _

He wasn't sure, and that had to change. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Heroin was a fucking terrible idea.

Dexter’s skin felt disgusting, he was nauseous, his hands had gone from shaking to  _ twitching,  _ and the clicking of the camera documenting the crime scene was about to drive him insane.

_ Click. Click.  _

“How long have they been on this scene?” Dexter snapped. “They haven’t run out of things to take pictures of?” 

Masuka looked up from running a gloved hand over one of Dexter’s harsher cuts. “Dude,” he said. “We  _ just  _ got here.” 

Dexter forced himself to take a breath and look back down, firmly pushing back the buzzing energy that kept trying to spike into anger. 

It wouldn’t do good for him to get angry - especially not the brand of anger he was usually given to. He could feel Debra’s eyes on him, and that just made it worse, the feeling of being under a microscope amplified by a hundred: fifty for his sister, fifty for the fact that he was taking notes on the veins of the man  _ he’d  _ killed at his own crime scene like a passive observer, while FBI snooped around and tried to find something that told them who he was. 

His arm itched, and he went to scratch it, something catching his hand just before he could.

Irritated, he snapped his head up to look at the offender, mouth already open to snap something.

Instead, he fell perfectly silent, as Debra eyed him with concern, nodding toward his hand. “Gloves,” she reminded him.

He looked down, at the blood-smeared gloves on his hands. “Right,” he said. “Thanks.” 

“Dude, you are all over the place,” Masuka said. “Something’s up with you.” 

Across from him, Debra tensed. 

_ Don’t be obvious,  _ Dexter thought. 

Masuka, oblivious, and clearly joking, asked, “Girlfriend pregnant?” 

“She broke up with me, actually,” Dexter replied dryly.

Masuka gave a sympathetic hiss. “That’s rough, buddy. What happened? Catch you with your pants down?” 

“She thinks she did, anyway,” Dexter said. Then, blinking, he looked up, asking, “Why am I telling you this? It doesn’t matter. Forget about it.” 

“Not when you’re clearly fucked up about it,” Masuka said. “We should have a boys’ night. Drinks, hitting on babes-...”

“Getting rejected?”

“Exactly,” Masuka said cheerfully. “Let’s get fucked up.” 

_ “No.” _

Masuka and Dexter both looked at Debra, who was glaring fiercely.

“Whoa,” Masuka said, hands up in surrender. “Okay, no boys’ night. Jesus.” 

“Dex needs to apologize to Rita,” Debra said. “That’s all.” 

“I didn’t  _ do  _ anything,” Dexter protested. 

She shifted her glare to him, this one pointed.

“I didn’t do what she  _ thinks  _ I did,” Dexter clarified. “Lila stayed with me because I needed her to. I didn’t have sex with her.” He looked down, returning his attention firmly to the body, telling her dismissively, “I’m not getting into it when I’m working.” 

He was almost certain Debra would push it, too given to confrontation, but she didn’t. After a long silence, he looked up, curious, and saw her looking toward something behind him.

He turned just in time to see Lundy stop next to them. “Anything useful?”

“Same pattern as always,” Debra said. Her voice was slightly tense, but she didn’t look Dexter’s way. “Nothing too crazy different. The guy’s at least consistent.” 

“I got something,” Masuka said.

Dexter looked over to him, pushing down a spike of panic.  _ He found something? _

“Butcher was hella pissed,” Masuka said. “That, or something was going on here. His cuts on the other bodies were all clean, even in decomposition. These- some are jagged, some cross over themselves, he’s got little bits of flesh hanging off this bit here - that’s not Butcher style.” 

“Another copycat?” Lundy guessed. 

Dexter grit his teeth.  _ Don’t make it easy on them,  _ he told himself, while simultaneously screaming from inside, because if this was written off as a copycat, Dexter would have wasted half of his alibi plan. A legitimate butcher kill on a night when he was found high in a shipyard would make it hard to accuse him of being the killer - a simple copycat, though? It wouldn’t matter in the slightest what Dexter had been up to, except to explain his behavior at the crime scene, where he was about one thread from snapping, heart pounding in his chest, body feeling hot, desperate for whatever he was doing to be  _ over.  _

“Dunno,” Masuka said. “It makes sense for it to be the Butcher getting personal, but there’s something else to it.” 

“Maybe it’s a warning,” Debra suggested. 

“To other copycats?” Lundy guessed.

Debra shook her head. “No, to us. We were after him, but we couldn’t find anything - what if this is him reminding us what he kills for? A sort of  _ if you can’t do your jobs right, I’ll fuckin’ do it myself  _ kind of thing.”

That was actually pretty clever, Dexter thought. 

He wondered if it would be cheap to claim that was what he’d meant to do. 

...Probably.

“Well then,” Lundy said. “We better do our jobs right. Let’s not give him any more potential victims. We need to lock down how much information on investigations leaks out - limit press releases, classify everything we can. I’ll talk to your chief of police, see what we can work out. For now, we can head back to the station.” 

_ Oh, great,  _ Dexter sighed internally.  _ Another car ride - and while she’s already mad at me.  _

On the bright side, though, he wouldn’t have to hear that camera click again for a good while.

  
  
  
  
  


They made it about halfway to the station before Debra broke under the pressure of the tense silence in the car. 

“Who is Lila?”

Dexter sighed. “My sponsor.”

“Sponsor?” Debra asked, confused. “You’re in a program?” 

“I told you I was in recovery.” 

“Yeah, but then you OD’d,” Debra said, voice pitching slightly. “You didn’t call her then?”

“She called me the other morning and left a voicemail,” Dexter said. “And she phrased it-...It didn’t sound good. And I’m kind of getting the feeling she might have done it on purpose.” He reached up, running a hand through his hair, saying, “Which doesn’t make any sense, because she has no reason to think Rita would have heard my private voicemails,  _ inside my apartment,  _ but she  _ did.”  _

“But you didn’t actually fuck her?”

Dexter snorted. “It took me forever to take an interest in  _ Rita,”  _ he reminded her. “No, I’m not ‘fucking’ my sponsor.”

Debra hesitated a moment, before asking, “...Then what happened?”

Dexter grit his teeth. “I- It’s complicated.”

_ “Dexter.” _

“I hit a low point,” he snapped. “She got me through it. That’s all.”

“A low point?” Debra asked, sounding strained.

“Don’t ask,” he said. “You don’t actually want to know.”

Debra swallowed. “You never told me what you told Doakes.”

“And I’m not going to,” Dexter replied. “It’s not stuff you want to know.”

“Dex, I fucking-...” 

“Deb,” Dexter cut her off. “I’ve been doing this for years. I’ve seen and  _ done  _ a lot of shit, and I promise you,  _ you do not want to know about it.”  _

Debra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “...Will you tell Doakes?”

Dexter blinked. “What?”

“You’re obsessed with trying to ‘protect’ me,” Debra snapped. “So then don’t fucking tell me. But will you tell  _ Doakes?”  _

“Tell him what?”

“Everything, Dexter,” she said. “Anything. Just- unload some of it, please. Don’t- don’t go through all this alone. I don’t wanna learn what you were going through only when it’s too late to help.” 

“Why should Doakes care?” Dexter asked. “He got what he wanted from me- an explanation. He wanted to know why I was the way I am, and now he does. I don’t think he’s going to care much how I got into it.”

“Well,” Debra said, “tell him anyway. You need  _ somebody,  _ Dexter.”

Dexter sighed again, leaning against the window. “If he asks,” he acquiesced, feeling that was safe. “If he asks anything else, I’ll tell him. Okay?”

“Okay,” Debra agreed.

Dexter looked out the window, turning over his history in his own brain.

He was not good enough at improv to make up his entire backstory on the spot, and that meant he needed to dissect the truth of it, and pull out the bits he could actually tell. 

_ Okay,  _ he told himself, thinking of Harry’s sadistic nurse, of dogs buried in his backyard, of a growing hunger and a shadow inside him. 

_ Let’s see if we can make something out of this.  _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> doakes is, objectively, a pretty Good person and that is his weakness re: dexter
> 
> TW: discussions of depression/suicidal ideation/etc and dexter getting a bit too openly Dark while building up his partly-genuine alibi and fighting the steadily worsening effects of overdosing on a narcotic

Seeing Dexter walk in with Debra was initially a relief, as Doakes didn’t have to explain to her why he’d lost her brother immediately, only for him to get even  _ more  _ worried when he saw the looks on their faces.

Dexter looked-...

Doakes had only ever seen that face once: when he caught Dexter at the shipyard, initially, and they’d fought. Dexter had worn that expression when he pinned Doakes to the side of a shipping container with surprising strength and evident rage. 

It wasn’t anger, really - it was some sort of steely determination, like he’d gotten so furious he’d gone right past it into that unsettling calm that meant real danger. 

Debra, in contrast, looked shaken and tired, and Doakes didn’t like the implication. 

He was across the room in an instant.

“Morgan,” he barked, catching their attention. “Outside. We’re talking.”

Dexter gave him a cold stare. “Why?”

“You’ll fuckin find out, won’t you?” Doakes countered. 

He took satisfaction in the long, annoyed breath Dexter took through his nose, and the fact that he complied anyway, stalking out at his side, letting Doakes lead him into the elevator. 

“What’s this about?” Dexter asked, the second the doors were shut. 

Doakes nodded to the upper corner of the elevator, where the camera was. “I oughta stop this thing and say my piece now, so I know you can’t freak out on me without landing your ass in a whole lot of trouble.” 

“I’ve been having a heroin withdrawal about three feet from the FBI’s lead investigator,” Dexter told him, dryly. “I think I’m past ‘trouble.’”

Shit. No wonder he was so pissed - a long-time addict? He was probably miserable. 

The elevator stopped, and Doakes got out without a word, heading straight out the building and around the corner, Dexter right on his heels. 

He headed out into the parking lot, to his car, unlocking it. 

“Where are we going?” Dexter asked. 

“Nowhere,” Doakes said. “It’s hot as fuck out here, I’m wasting the gas for the A/C. Get in.”

And if anyone stepped out for a smoke break, he didn’t want them overhearing him asking Dexter about that murder he’d casually admitted to. 

They settled in the seats, sitting in silence for a moment, before Dexter raised an eyebrow at Doakes impatiently. 

“You looked like you were about to fucking choke out your own sister,” Doakes said bluntly. “Something happen at the crime scene?”

“That’s between me and my sister,” Dexter said.

“So it did.”

“Fuck  _ off,  _ Doakes.”

Doakes shook his head, almost laughing. “No way in hell. I’m all in on this one.” 

Dexter glared at him. “What did you really want?” he asked. “You pulled her file, didn’t you? His? You know I was telling the truth.”

“But not the whole truth.”

Dexter faltered, watching him with a guarded expression. “What are you talking about?”

“How’d you get into drugs, Morgan?” Doakes asked, voice dropping, half of him wanting to ask it gently, the other half wanting to pin Dexter in place and  _ make  _ him answer.

“A few bad decisions in a row,” Dexter said. “Does it matter?”

“It matters,” Doakes said. “You mentioned your dad, and what I pulled on him and your mom? The little bit you let slip? Sounds suspicious.” 

Dexter huffed out an irate breath. “Sounds suspicious how? Having a foster dad makes me an automatic serial killer?”

Doakes didn’t take the bait- Dexter was looking for a fight, and he wasn’t getting it until Doakes got what he was after. His voice dropped a bit, levelling out into something softer without his intention. “Harry got you into drugs, didn’t he?”

Dexter’s lips pressed into a thin line, and he turned, looking out the front window of the car. 

“Morgan.”

“My name is Dexter,” he muttered in response. “If you won’t leave me alone, you can at least make sure I know when you’re talking  _ to  _ me, instead of just  _ about  _ me.”

“You’re dodging the question,  _ Dexter,”  _ James said. “Harry-...”

“He had a heart condition,” Dexter said, abruptly cutting in. As Doakes fell silent, he pressed on, “They put him in the hospital, and he was getting worse, really fast. He held me back from a visit, and told me...his nurse was giving him high grade painkillers he didn’t need.” He got a distant look on his face, murmuring as though in a daze, “He saw it as an opportunity. Control Dexter, give him something to work with other than just being...empty.” 

“He gave you opiates,” Doakes translated. “Your fuckin’  _ father  _ started you down that road. How old were you?” 

“Seventeen.”

“Fuck,” James breathed. “You’ve been on this shit  _ fifteen years?”  _

Dexter made a face, giving something like an aborted shrug. “It was-...It was slow. Little things when I absolutely couldn’t take it anymore. And then I got-....I got ritualistic about it. I had a system. I had...had codes, had rules. I let it build, and then I let it out, very carefully.” 

Doakes watched him, before giving into curiosity. “..What made you want to quit?”

“I don’t.”

James snorted. “At least you’re honest.”

“It’s a virtue,” Dexter said, completely flat. “Rita’s ex-husband got out of jail. He was a heroin addict, and he abused her before he was arrested.” 

“Made you realize you don’t wanna be that?” Doakes guessed.

Dexter  _ laughed.  _

James watched warily as the man let out the fullest, most honest laugh Doakes had ever heard him give. 

“I-...” Dexter shook his head, laughter dying. “See, you’d think - I thought I loved Rita. I thought she saw the good parts of me, and taking care of her, taking care of her family - I had something that was  _ good,  _ even with- with everything I am.” He looked to Doakes, something manic in his face. “But I don’t care what I am. I don’t want to be  _ good,  _ I don’t want to be a better person. But he threatened her, and I couldn’t handle that. So I put heroin in his hotel room and called the cops.” 

“Motherfucking-...” Doakes swore, staring at him in disbelief. “You framed him?”

“He would’ve relapsed eventually,” Dexter said. 

“You don’t know that,” Doakes said. 

“I do,” Dexter said, firmly. “We don’t change, Doakes. Me and him-...”

“Addicts?”

Dexter gave him an unreadable look. “Bad people,” he corrected. “People like us...with something fundamental that’s just... _ wrong?”  _ He shook his head. “There’s no redemption. No recovery. All you can do is... damage control.”

“Are you telling me I should turn  _ you  _ in?” Doakes asked, harshly, pointing out the flaw in the logic. 

To his surprise, though, Dexter shrugged, saying, “Probably.”

Doakes stared. 

“I killed my brother,” Dexter told him. “Rita’s ex died in prison, so I pretty much killed him, too. That’s two. You know I steal from the evidence locker. You know I accessed records I’m not supposed to have, you know I lied to the police-...”

“Do you  _ want  _ me to report you?” Doakes asked, incredulous. 

Then, something occurred to him, and he stared, stomach churning uncomfortably.

“Heroin overdose didn’t work, huh?” James asked, softer than he meant to say it. “You have to find a new way to kill yourself?”

Dexter huffed. “I don’t want to die,” he said. Then, after a moment, he carried on, “...but I don’t necessarily want to live, either. I’m just...here. Doing whatever little things I can do to affect a world that will never really get any better, and hoping no one notices that I’m lying to them. Slashing your tire so you can’t follow me when I indulge in my habit and immediately go to a meeting because my girlfriend found out and I was willing to pretend I wanted to stop if it meant I didn’t have to change anything.” 

Doakes watched him, a sort of numbness crawling over him at his own horror. 

"Happy?" Dexter asked. 

"No, I'm not fuckin' happy," he said. "The fuck is wrong with- You're fucking creepy, Morgan, but I wasn't hoping to hear it was because you were a fucking addict gone suicidal."

"I just said-..."

"I heard what you said," Doakes interrupted. "Have you told your sister this? Any of this?"

Dexter's lips flattened in a thin line. 

"That's a no," Doakes said. 

"She has an idea," Dexter said. "Most of it is probably just being attributed to the fact that my day is particularly shit so far."

"What happened with Debra?" Doakes asked. 

"You can call her Debra, but you call me 'Morgan'?"

"You can't both be 'Morgan,'" James said. "Fuckin confusing. You're stalling."

Dexter huffed out a breath. "She thinks I should apologize to Rita."

"For framing her ex, or..?"

Dexter snorted. "For an  _ affair _ I didn't even have."

"...I'm waiting."

"I was- last night," Dexter said. "I planned to do it before, but I got in contact with my sponsor from those dumb meetings like I was supposed to and she talked me down. And Rita thought I slept with her, which- I didn't. We didn't have sex, anyway."

"Did you make out or something?" Doakes asked, confused by the distinction. 

"No, she-...I slept on her bed. With my head in her lap."

Doakes blinked at him. "Morgan," he said.

"Dexter," the man corrected. 

_ "Dexter, _ then, what the fuck ever," he said. "Is that why you didn't call her last night, when you went to do it again?"

"....Partly?" Dexter shook his head. "I've been wanting a night like last night for a while. I just- every time I tried, I'd get everything set, and just...stop. I needed to do it, but I couldn't. It-..." he huffed out a harsh laugh. "It really pissed me off, actually."

"It's a good thing," Doakes said. "You were getting better."

"I wasn't getting better," Dexter said. "I was fucking traumatized. I killed my brother, and it's really hard to cut loose when you remember what your bad habit could have been."

"Get a fucking therapist," he said. "Don't OD on heroin, for fuck's sake."

"Oh, thanks for the advice," Dexter said sarcastically. 

Doakes huffed, and raised his hand, holding it out at Dexter. "Gimme your phone."

"What?" Dexter asked, eyebrows furrowed in open confusion. "No."

"Give me your fucking phone, Dexter."

Whether it was the use of his name, or him just deciding he couldn't be bothered, Dexter dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone and passing it over. 

Doakes took it, clicked his way through it, and then handed him back. 

Dexter stared down at the screen, incredulous. "Is this your phone number?"

"No, it's a suicide hotline, I just put it under my name," Doakes said. "Yes, it's my fuckin' number. You looked like you were gonna lose your shit with Debra, so there you go. Need me, call me. No more waking my ass up in the dead of night because you went on a fuckin bender."

"Doakes-..."

"First name basis only go one way?"

Dexter gaped at him. "You  _ hate _ me," he said. "What, you feel sorry for me, so we're friends now?"

"Fuck no, we aren't friends," James said. "But I know enough about you now your advantage ain't shit. So, far as I see, we're even- and you need  _ somebody,  _ and I know you ain't gonna tell your sister a damn thing about what you've told me. So, no, Dexter, I don't fucking like you, but being a fucking creep doesn't mean you should have to figure this shit out by yourself."

Dexter stared, lips curling into a small, disbelieving smile. “Are you warming up to me?”

Doakes reached out, grabbing his key and shutting off the car in one fluid movement. “Out of my car, Morgan.”

“Dexter,” he corrected again, before obeying, leaving the vehicle. 

On his way back through the doors, he let out a soft laugh, entirely taken aback by his own good fortune. 

_ This might actually work.  _


	7. Chapter 7

Dexter made it through the day up until about three steps through his front door, where he pitched forward, sucked in a sharp breath, and headed for his front bathroom.

“Dex?” Debra called after him, alarmed. “Are you-..?”

The sound of him retching drifted back to her.

“Oh, come on,” she said, weakly attempting a joke. “My driving isn’t that bad.” 

A light, cheery tune rang out, and a second later, something came skidding across the floor from the bathroom doorway. 

“What’s-..?” She stopped it with her foot, staring down at Dexter’s ringing phone.

Across the screen was the name RITA. 

“Fucking dammit, Dex,” she muttered, stooping down and quickly scooping it up, answering the call. “Hey, Rita.”

“...Debra?” Rita’s voice came back. “You-...where’s Dexter? Is he okay?” 

Debra leaned forward, peeking into the bathroom, where Dexter had his forehead resting against his arm, propped up on the toilet seat, looking miserable. 

“He’s...here,” Debra said. “He’s not at his best.” 

“Oh, God, did-...Debra, did you know-...?”

“He told me yesterday,” Debra said. Lowering her voice, she murmured, “I didn’t know about the drugs before then, Rita, or I swear-...” 

“I can still hear you,” Dexter groaned. 

“Good!” Debra shouted back. Returning to the phone, she said, “Look, I really want you two to talk things out, but I really shouldn’t give the phone back to him right now.” 

Rita’s voice came back much tenser, strained. “He’s high, isn’t he?” 

“No, no, he’s sober,” Debra said. “He’s-...he’s just in a pissy fucking mood, and he’s bitched at me all afternoon. I don’t want him picking a fight or something when he needs to apologize.” 

“I didn’t fucking  _ do-...”  _ Dexter started to call out to her, only to interrupt himself by getting sick again.

“I think I can hear him,” Rita said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him yell like that.” 

“He, uh…”

Debra looked to the door.

_ She needs to know,  _ she decided.

As softly as she was able, she told her, “He OD’d, Rita.”

Rita sucked in a sharp breath on the other end of the line. “Oh, God,” she repeated, sounding teary. 

“He’s okay,” Debra said, “but he-..Hey!”

Dexter snatched the phone out of her hand, bringing it to his own ear. “I’m fine,” he said, sternly. “And I didn’t- I didn’t OD. Doakes is dramatic.” 

“It’s that, or you were way more fucking addicted than you thought, dumbass,” Debra snapped. “You’ve been sick all day, you’ve-...”

“Both of you can’t yell at me at once!” Dexter said, holding the phone slightly away from his ear as he did, though it was unclear if it was meant to lessen the effect of his raised volume or to give him distance from the voice on the other end of the line. When both women quieted, he turned his phone over, hitting the button to put it on speaker. “There,” he said. “Now, to  _ both  _ of you: I’m okay. Everything’s fine. It’s under control.” 

“Bullshit,” Debra said.

“Dexter, you were doing so well,” Rita said. “You were going to the meetings- did you call your sponsor?” 

“Well, that didn’t work out so well, the last time,” Dexter said. 

There was a tense silence. 

“Did you sleep with her, Dexter?”

“As in, fell asleep in her lap, yeah,” Dexter said. “But no, we didn’t have sex. Believe it or not, the time it took me to come around to that concept with  _ you  _ wasn’t a fluke. That’s not-...I’m not just going to do that for the sake of it, Rita.”

“And the overdose?” Rita asked. “How much of that was because of-...?”

“Don’t feel guilty,” Dexter told her. “It had nothing to do with you. This is- this is my problem, completely. I would have done it anyway.” 

Another long silence.

“Rita,” Debra said, softly, but the other woman interrupted. 

“You need help, Dexter,” she said, gently. “But- but I don’t know if I can be that for you. I love you, but...but you need to get better, and until then, I don’t know if I can be around you.”

Dexter’s head dipped a fraction, and when he replied, his voice was entirely flat. “That’s probably better.” 

“Okay,” Rita said. “Okay...Debra, are you still-..?”

“I’m here,” Debra said. “I’m taking care of him, Rita. A friend of ours is helping, too. He'll be okay."

"Alright," Rita said. "Thank you, Debra. Dexter-..."

He hung up. 

"What the  _ fuck, _ Dexter?" Debra exclaimed, only for her further shouts to lodge in her throat. 

Dexter looked…

Dexter looked fucking terrified. 

"I wouldn't hurt her," he said, looking almost desperately to Debra. "I would never."

"...No one's saying you would, Dex," she told him, gently, reaching out to touch his shoulder. 

He jerked back from her touch, phone clasped tight in his hands. "One day," he said. "One day of letting it go, and it's over."

"Dex, it was-..."

"I don't mean my relationship," Dexter said. "I mean-..."

He shook his head, dragging a hand over his face. 

Debra’s stomach turned over. Dexter being angry had been new to her, but anger she could at least understand. This - Dexter looked like the world had fallen out from under him. 

“I had it under control,” Dexter said. “Everything was under control, if I would have just-...” He shook his head. 

“It wasn’t  _ under control,  _ Dex,” Debra said. “You had to stop. Hiding it and carrying on would have killed you. Nothing stays buried, anyway.” 

Dexter let out a snort. “Thank you for the biblical wisdom, Harry fucking Morgan.” 

Debra frowned at him. “You’re in a fucking bitch of a mood,” she said.

“I’ve had a shitty day.” 

“I think you’ve sworn more in the last hour than the rest of the year,” Debra added. “And it’s not like you-...”

_ “What’s _ not like me?” Dexter asked, looked up at her, something wild behind his eyes. 

“Any of this!” Debra said. “You’re not-...Doing drugs, stealing from work, lying about everything,  _ yelling  _ at me-...”

“That’s  _ exactly  _ like me,” Dexter snapped. “I’m just such a fucking liar you can’t tell the difference.”

Debra’s mouth snapped shut, lips pressing into a thin line. 

Something shifted in Dexter’s expression, and like flipping a switch, he softened. The anger and frustration in his eyes melted away, and he gave her a small, apologetic smile. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry, Deb, today’s just been- it’s a lot.” 

_ He’s not,  _ Debra thought, looking at him, feeling like she’d just had someone dump cold water over her. 

He wasn’t sorry that he was being mean - he was sorry she was seeing it. 

_ How often does he get like this?  _ She wondered.  _ Does he just...lose his shit, by himself, and then shove it away and play nice?  _

“...You should go to bed, Dex,” Debra said. “You’re barely standing.” 

It was ridiculously early in the afternoon to turn in, but Dexter nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.” He turned, heading for his bedroom. “I’ll see if I can sleep this off.” 

He stepped through the door, closing it softly behind him. 

Debra sighed, turning away-

- _ Click. _

She froze.

_ He locked the door,  _ she realized.  _ He locked the fucking door.  _

She wanted to write it off. People locked their doors all the time, especially after a fight. He probably just needed privacy for a while. He was still sick, maybe he wanted to fall apart a little without being seen.

But-

But Doakes had suggested he might keep some stash in there, somewhere, and that possibility was a higher risk than she wanted to think about. 

“Dex?” she called, stepping toward the door to speak through it. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he called back, sounding perfectly normal. 

Considering his attitude only minutes earlier, she was almost certain it was an act. 

  
  
  
  


He had about five minutes, he figured, before his locked door became a problem Debra wasn’t willing to walk away from.

That in mind, he moved quietly, but as quickly as he possibly could, unearthing his hidden trophies.

If they searched his apartment looking for drugs, there was no way those were staying hidden, where they were. He was confident in his hiding place under normal circumstances, but Doakes and Debra were both relentless, and they’d test  _ floorboards  _ to be certain he hadn’t pried one up - not a single square inch of his apartment was safe. 

There were maybe thirty-five or forty slides in the box, out of the fifty it would hold, but they all had to go. 

Purging his trophies felt wrong, but he’d already set fire to everything else he’d built over the years, and they were the last step. 

The only problem was-...what the hell did someone do with forty glass blood slides? Especially when they couldn’t leave their bedroom? 

Dexter spared half a glance to the window, briefly entertaining the mental image of just chucking it out onto the street, leaving it to be crushed under a car tire or discovered by a random unlucky pedestrian. 

Or maybe it would club someone over the head, killing them, and Dexter would have one more to add to his list. 

_ Heroin was a terrible idea,  _ Dexter thought.  _ Either it fried my brain, or I’ve finally lost it.  _

He could smash the glass, he thought, and throw away the shards, explaining away the specs of blood as him cutting himself cleaning it up. He didn’t have anything he could claim to have shattered, though, and tiny little individual specks of broken glass were not the kind of thing you got from dropping a glass or vase. 

If he had something big, he could smash  _ it,  _ and disguise the shards among the garbage. 

But what…?

...Hm.

_ This is a stupid idea,  _ Dexter thought.  _ This is dumber than the heroin, and that was  _ astronomically  _ stupid.  _

His five minutes was almost up, though, and he had to do  _ something.  _

He’d have to make his peace with the knowledge that, after this, Debra was never going to leave him alone again.

  
  
  
  


Debra paced back and forth in front of Dexter’s door, chewing her thumb, debating what to do. Simply barging in was risking another fight, this one likely much worse, but there was still the chance that she wasn’t being dramatic at all, and that it really was his plan to do something while she was locked out. 

She could hear him inside, she thought - the occasional soft sound from deep inside.

_ His bathroom, _ she guessed, but she couldn’t hear him getting sick, so she wasn’t sure how much that should worry her. 

_ What if he’s- _

A loud crashing sound cut into her thoughts. 

“Dexter?!” She cried, and threw herself forward, barrelling into his door, slamming into it until it was forced open. “What the fuck-...?”

Soft swearing guided her across the room, into Dexter’s bathroom.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Dex!”

His mirror was  _ shattered,  _ tiny shards flicked all across the sink and down over the floor. Blood spatters marked one part of the mirror’s exposed backing, and flecked the scattered glass, some of which her dumbass brother was  _ scooping into a trash can  _ with his  _ bare fucking hands.  _

“Dexter, what the  _ fuck?”  _

“Had a- a thing,” Dexter said, voice unsteady. “Didn’t mean to-...I’ll clean it up.” 

Debra crossed the room, catching his wrist, pulling the trash can out of his hands to set it aside before turning her attention to appraising the damage. 

It was ugly, tiny little bits of shattered glass  _ coating  _ his hands, making it hard to even tell which parts were actually piercing skin and which just dusted the top layer. Some pieces were still big enough to reflect, rather than just going white with the cracks in their surface, and in them she could see her own horrified eyes. 

“Were you-...” She looked up at him. “What the fuck did you do? Were you- did you  _ hallucinate,  _ or something?” 

“No, no,” Dexter said, but in a vague tone that made her highly skeptical. “I was just-...” 

He looked sideways, toward the sink, and she followed his gaze, freezing as they landed on something. 

A wooden box, standing empty on the side of the sink, bits of broken glass across it. 

“You went for your stash,” she realized. “What? Realized it was empty and got pissed off?” 

She looked back, to find him staring at the box, face almost mournful. 

“Dex,” she breathed. “You need help, Dexter.” 

Dexter tipped his head back, letting out a low breath. “Go ahead.”

Debra blinked. “‘Go ahead’ what?”

“Call Doakes,” Dexter said, still speaking to the ceiling. “I know you want to. Search the apartment together, you won’t find anything else. That was it.” 

“I  _ will  _ call him,” Debra said. “But it’s not to fucking turn out your apartment. I’m getting him to bring some fucking first aid equipment and help me clean this shit up, because I’m terrible at that kind of thing. Okay? I’m calling him to  _ take care of you.” _

Dexter didn’t answer her. Debra couldn’t shake the feeling that he just didn’t care.


	8. Chapter 8

Doakes picked up on the second ring. 

"What'd he do?" He asked, in lieu of a greeting. 

"Freaked the fuck out," Debra replied. "He punched a fucking mirror, blew the whole thing into shards. My hands aren't steady enough to be picking out glass, I'll fuck it up worse. Can you-...?"

"I'm on the way."

Debra sighed in relief. "Okay, his apartment-.."

"8240 Palm Terrace, #10B," Doakes said. "I know. Keep an eye on him."

The phone line disconnected before she could say anything else. 

"Fucking Christ," Debra muttered. "How long has Doakes been your goddamn stalker, huh?" She turned the corner, stepping back into the bedroom, where Dexter sat on the edge of his bed. "He knows your address?" 

"He knows what night at Rita's is pizza night," Dexter said, wearily. "He's a certified Dexter Morgan expert."

"That's fucking weird."

"Trust me, I know."

  
  
  
  
  


Doakes arrived at the apartment in record time, judging by the look of shock on Debra's face when he got there. 

"You weren't just, like, hiding down the street in a trashcan, were you?" She asked. 

"Just behind one," he replied, dry. "Where is he?"

"In his room. I broke the door when I heard the mirror break, so it's open. And he insisted on cleaning up the fucking glass, so you can put any glass in the same trashcan."

Insisted on cleaning it? Dexter was a bit of a neat freak, but if his hands were messed up, and he was still moving...Mania, perhaps? Another symptom as he came down hard? 

Or something else?

Doakes headed into the apartment, into the bedroom, meeting Dexter's eyes as soon as they were in each other's line of sight. 

"Mirror kick your ass?"

"I think I won," Dexter replied. 

"You didn't," he said, crossing the room, crouching down in front of the man to look at his hands. Reaching out, he took one by the wrist, gently turning it over to inspect the damage. 

It wasn't too bad. There were scratches, though, that didn't make sense for a single impact - the back of his hands, the sides, were scuffed as though they'd been scraped in places. 

_ He rubbed them with the glass still on,  _ Doakes theorized. Nervous habit?

He looked to the side, where the bathroom's tiny trash can sat, full to the brim with glass shards. 

"Your sister said you cleaned it up."

"Yeah," Dexter said. "I made the mess, anyway, it was my problem to deal with. I wasn't going to make her do it for me."

"Mm," Doakes hummed, looking back to Dexter's hands, easing the fingers apart, gently starting to pluck bigger pieces free. "What's in the glass?"

"...What?"

"I'm not stupid, Morgan-..."

"Debatable," Dexter muttered, lips squirming up in amusement at his own jibe. 

"Shut up," Doakes told him. "I could fuck your hands up right now, asshole."

Regardless of what he said, his grip and rhythmic motions did not change the slightest, continuing on a gently determined course. 

"Thing is, you're batshit crazy, yeah, but not punch-the-glass-out crazy. So, I figure, you punched that mirror for a reason."

"And what would that be, Detective Doakes?" Dexter asked in a sigh. 

"If I was your sister, I'd probably guess it was to hurt yourself," Doakes said. "That's helped by the fact that you've been rolling the glass against your skin to make the cuts worse."

"But you aren't Debra," Dexter said. "So what's  _ your  _ theory?"

Doakes looked up, meeting his gaze again and holding it steady. "Your eyes are locked on that trash can, and your sister says you wouldn't leave it without cleaning up all the glass.  _ I  _ figure, you realized that a bunch of broken glass, splattered with blood, would be something no one wanted to stick their fingers into. A good place to hide something."

Dexter snorted. "My drug stash is in a glass filled trash can?"

"You didn't take everything you had," Doakes said. "You were talking about your body weight - you ran numbers. You knew exactly what you could handle and you took it, you didn't just clean yourself out. And knowing we were gonna search your apartment, you had to get rid of the rest." 

"Why?" Dexter asked. "Why would I need to get rid of it? You'd throw it out anyway."

"Exactly," James said. "You're a control freak, Morgan. If you lose your habit, it's gonna be because you chose to give it up, or it's not happening. The way you were talking in the car, you weren’t really sold on quitting. You think you’re pretty clever, so you could’ve figured out a way around us two watching you, found some way to keep using.” 

“And I changed my mind because…?”

“You tell me.” 

They stared at each other, neither one backing down.

After a moment of holding this, Doakes snorted, getting up to leave the room. A moment later, he returned, crouching down again with a washcloth in hand, starting to clean the now glass-free wounded skin. “Longer you stay quiet, more I think I’m right.” 

“Rita called,” Dexter said. 

Doakes looked up, quirking an eyebrow at him. “Your girlfriend?” 

“Deb told her what happened,” Dexter said. “So she dumped me.”

“Thought she already did that.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dexter sighed. “Guess she needed to say it properly.” 

Doakes hummed understandingly. “So you want to quit now, so you can get her back, that it?”

“...No.”

Doakes looked back up at him, waiting.

Dexter’s face was pinched, contemplative. “I’ve been getting - getting desperate, getting sloppy. I’ve ruined everything I worked on building over the course of a couple days, because I let myself get so caught up in trying to shove the dirt back over what’s been dug up.” He shook his head. “I’m wondering now if-...If maybe Harry’s  _ solution  _ is making me worse.”

Doakes paused in cleaning Dexter’s hands, looking back up at him. “You want my opinion, there, Morgan?” 

Dexter eyed him curiously. “What happened to ‘Dexter’?”

Doakes didn’t accept the change of subject. “I think,” he said, “that your dad should have taken you to a fucking psychiatrist.” 

“And locked me up like Biney?” Dexter asked, sounding just on the edge of pissed off. 

“No,” Doakes said. “And gotten you some fucking  _ help,  _ because you went through shit that can break grown men as a fuckin’  _ kid,  _ and instead of dealing with that, your own dad wrote you off as a lost cause and fed you fucking opiods to keep you placid.” 

Dexter’s face pinched. “He didn’t-...It wasn’t like that.” 

“No?” Doakes asked. “Why did he think you needed that ‘solution’?” 

Dexter’s lips pressed into a thin white line. “I would have done something, eventually, and he knew that,” he said. “He-...”

“Bullshit,” Doakes interrupted. “You had problems. Everybody’s got fuckin’ problems. A good dad should have helped you  _ deal  _ with those, not decided you weren’t worth the fuckin’ effort. Especially a cop - how the fuck can you claim to be making the world safer when you can’t protect your own goddamn kid from the trauma  _ you  _ dragged his ass into in the first place?” 

Dexter pulled his hands back, curling them into fists. “Harry  _ was  _ a good dad,” he stressed. “Without him, I’d have been-...I’d…”

“You wouldn’t be sitting here, letting me clean you up after you shattered a mirror to have a way to safely throw away the last of your drug stash.” 

“I wouldn’t be sitting here at all,” Dexter replied, flatly. “I’d be locked up or dead. Harry kept me alive.” 

“Yeah, well,” Doakes said, standing up. “A dad should do a fuckin’ hell of a lot more than that.” 

He held up the towel he’d been using. “Where do you want me to throw this?” 

“In the garbage, probably,” Dexter said. 

“The one with the drugs in it?”

Dexter sighed. “I’m not going to convince you I  _ didn’t  _ dump the last of my drug stash in there, am I?”

“Sure,” Doakes said. “If when I dig through your apartment with your sister, I find more, I’ll know I was wrong. Until then…”

“You’re searching my apartment?” Dexter asked. It sounded like he’d aimed for indignant, but didn’t quite make it, already resigned to the fact that it was going to happen. 

“Sure am,” Doakes confirmed. “And you’re lucky your ass isn’t being stuck on a fuckin’ suicide watch, the way you scared the shit out of your sister. I’m hoping when you come down off the shakes you remember that you’re not always such a fuckin’ asshole and apologize to her for all the shit you’ve put her through the past couple days.” 

“I’m not always an asshole?” Dexter echoed. “Doakes, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

“Shut the fuck up, Morgan.” 

“Dexter,” the man reminded him. “We were doing first names for a second, what happened to it?” 

“Not even sure you  _ know  _ my damn name,  _ Dexter.”  _

“James.”

Doakes stopped short. Hearing his own first name from anyone but his family or Maria was different, but hearing it from  _ Dexter specifically  _ was a whole other level of trip, so far from an ongoing feud that had only been buried a few days. 

“You know,” Dexter said, drawing his attention back, “You’re a pretty good detective.” 

“The fuck does that mean?” Doakes asked. “Of course I’m a good fucking detective. You think I do this shit because it pays well?”

Dexter huffed a laugh. “I just meant- you had the instinct no one else did, right off the bat. You knew I was up to something, you never believed me. You keep seeing through my shit the second I try it.” 

“Cause you’re a shit liar, Mor-..Dexter,” Doakes said. “Half the time you don’t even fucking bother, either, just talk in circles and hope whoever’s listening just gets bored and stops asking.” 

“Not you, though,” Dexter said. “You ever think that maybe  _ you  _ should see someone about that whole stalking thing? You freaked Deb out, too, by the way.” 

“I’m a good cop,” Doakes said. “I was following a suspect.” 

“Without a warrant.”

“Did I break into your fucking house?” Doakes asked. “No? Then I didn’t need shit. I can follow your ass to the bowling alley once a week until they put you in the motherfucking dirt.” 

“It’s good to know you care, Doakes.”

“James,” he corrected. “Be consistent,  _ Dexter.  _ Either we’re doing this, or we aren’t.”

Dexter eyed him. “It sounds like you’re asking me out.” 

Doakes snorted. “Yeah, nothin gets a man worked up like picking the glass out of a guy’s hands after he loses his shit on heroin withdrawal.” 

“According to you, it wasn’t losing my shit,” Dexter reminded him. “Your theory is that I hid drugs in a pile of broken glass.”

“And that’s  _ better?” _ Doakes asked, incredulous. 

“Just pointing it out,” Dexter said. “Are you leaving, now?”

Doakes looked from him, to the door, then back again. “You gonna be okay if I do?” 

Dexter stared at him. 

James snorted. “You’re still pissed off, you’re sick as shit, and your sister is in your face about it. If you need a buffer, I’m not scared of your couch. You owe me when my back hurts later, but I’ll fuckin stay.” 

Dexter sighed. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he said. “I won’t do anything to Deb - I’m just going to bed.”

“It’s like six o’clock, Dexter.”

“Heroin withdrawal,” Dexter reminded him. “I’m fucking  _ tired.”  _

“You swear more on a drug trip,” Doakes pointed out.

“Deb pointed that out, too,” he said. “I think it’s less about drugs and more about mood. I’m in a pretty shit one, right about now.” 

“Well, for your sister’s sake, then,” James said, “I’ll hang around. Give you someone to yell at who isn’t afraid to yell back.” 

“Deb yells,” Dexter muttered. “She just feels bad about it, later.” 

“Yeah, well,” Doakes said, “I’m a heartless S.O.B., so you don’t have to worry about that. Take a fucking nap, you big baby.” 

Dexter shot him a glare, but turned, stretching out in his bed anyway. 

“I’m going to need a bigger apartment,” he said. “Or a second couch. Maybe you guys take turns stealing the other half of my bed.” 

“I’ll pass,” James told him, heading for the door, catching the light on the way out. “Just get your shit together, and this is temporary. Night, Mor-....Dexter.”

“Goodnight,” Dexter called back, tone odd. “...James.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw (minor?) eye trauma

He’d said too much.

He  _ kept  _ saying too much, actually. It had been working out for him, so far, but Dexter really needed to get a grip on how much of his alibi was going to stay true.

It was just that Doakes had this air about him, this understanding look, that made Dexter feel like he could, for a second, be honest, and air out some of the things that had weighed on him since Brian’s resurfacing. 

There were no drugs, but there  _ was  _ an addiction, and Dexter really didn’t know what he would do if he didn’t have it. He couldn’t imagine a world where that  _ need  _ wasn’t vital, where he let things go and did things through the proper channels instead, working  _ with  _ the police instead of behind their backs. 

That wasn’t what he was taught. That wasn’t what he’d always done, his beloved routine, his personal safety net. 

Maybe Doakes was right about that, too. Maybe Harry could have found something better than teaching him to give in. It was hardly his fault that Dexter was the way he was, but…

But maybe he didn't help things, after all. 

Dexter stared up at his ceiling. 

_ Nothing's gone well,  _ he thought. 

Whatever he chose to do, there was no going back, now. He'd gone too far. 

The question was, was he biding his time until his alibi gave him leave to move safely again?

Or...was he  _ done?  _

It seemed impossible. He hadn’t  _ needed  _ to kill the copycat, but he had anyway, because it was his  _ job.  _ Could he really just...retire?

Not get arrested, not get killed, just...stop?

_ That’s ridiculous,  _ Dexter thought, bringing his hands up to scrub down his face.  _ I didn’t do heroin to become a model citizen.  _

God, he was losing it. 

  
  
  
  
  


“How is he?” Debra asked. 

Doakes shrugged. “He’s not high, he’s not pissed off - better than he’s been.” 

“Thanks for coming,” Debra told him. “I’m really sorry, I just- I don’t know what to do. He’s  _ never  _ like that.” She hesitated a second, before amending, “To me, at least.”

“I think there’s a little more Dexter Morgan than anyone gave him credit for,” Doakes said. “He’s damn smart, managing to play so many angles at once.” 

“I really don’t like you talking about him like he’s a criminal,” Debra said, unable to help the bite to her tone. 

“He stole heroin out of an evidence locker,” Doakes told her. “And he’s done a good bit else, if I believe him.” 

Debra frowned. “What? He told you things?” 

“A few,” Doakes said. “I think he had stuff he’s been sitting on for too long, and even when he’s a strung out asshole, he’s protective of you. He’s not gonna tell you shit he doesn’t have to, because he’s not gonna worry you.” 

Debra huffed. “That’s fucking stupid,” she said. “If I can  _ help-...”  _

“I don’t think you can,” Doakes said. He spared a glance over his shoulder, toward the open doorway, then back again. “I think-...His history, the shit that got him here- I think he’s closer to working on it than he’s ever been. He’s fuckin’ terrified of it, to. He’s getting cagey because he’s realized he can’t get out of this, and he can’t handle it. He doesn’t need more people trying to fix his fucked up brain. He needs reasons to  _ want  _ to get better, not just people telling him he should.” 

Debra looked to the door as well, into the dark room beyond it. “Is he gonna be okay, Doakes?” she asked, softly. “He’s really fucked up by this. I’ve  _ never  _ seen him this way, ever. He was a goody-two-shoes in fucking  _ middle school.  _ I don’t know how we got here.” 

There was a silence in response, and she looked back to see Doakes’ face pinched as he seemingly considered something.

“What?” she asked. “Do you know something else?” 

“Your brother’s been in this...a long time,” Doakes said. “I’m not gonna go into his shit, that’s between the two of you, but- he started young. Far as I can tell, the Dexter you grew up with was one he created to talk to the world, while he hid another Dexter behind the curtain.” 

Debra let out a low breath. “My brother is a good person,” she said, quiet but firm. “That wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t an act. He’s a  _ good person.”  _

“I’m sure he wants to be,” Doakes replied. “Not so sure he knows what that means.” 

  
  
  
  


Dexter’s eyes snapped open, Brian’s nickname on his lips, the image of blood lingering in his mind.

_ A fucking nightmare?  _

Of course he couldn’t even sleep. He reached up, scrubbing at his face, trying to shake it. 

Instead, the only thing  _ shaken  _ were his hands. At this point, he couldn’t even tell if it was fear from the dream, or the heroin.

The latter had, during Dexter’s brief nap, gotten even worse. His stomach felt like a warzone, his head pounded, his mouth was dry, and all he could do was lie there and feel miserable for a while. 

_ Worst plan ever. _

He had sleeping meds in the kitchen, he knew - he’d invested in them when Debra started staying over. He just needed to go get them.

He continued to lie there, debating. Moving seemed like a great effort.

He rubbed at his eyes with his fingertips, pushing until there were spots forming behind his eyelids. 

_ I’m going to fucking die here. _

He was being dramatic.

He was shaking, though. His skin itched, he was shaking, he was fucking  _ cold,  _ but he was sweating.

_ I really did overdose, I guess. _

Idiot.  _ Idiot,  _ idiot, idiot- his fingers dug into the tear ducts of his eyes.

He deserved the falling out, honestly. It figured that years of sins would pile up against him and lead to something like this - him firmly burning out his own candle, scrambling in desperation to do  _ something  _ and just digging his own grave ever deeper. 

His eyes started to water under his hands. It lessened the feeling of the scrubbing, and Dexter doubled down, still trying to chase away the stinging, itching feelings. 

He could have fucking killed himself. Everything Harry ever taught him would have gone up in smoke. 

Maybe, when he was gone, they’d have searched his apartment. Would they have found the blood slides? Would they have drawn the correct conclusions?

Would they have believed it? Doakes would have, but everyone else was so painfully optimistic. Everyone was so desperate to accept Dexter at face value, to believe he was just a simple, harmless lab geek. 

A fingernail pricked at his tear duct, making him curse as pain twinged in his eye. Reflexively, he pulled his hands back, only to bring them right back up when they were only a centimeter away, as the stinging flared up a hundred times worse with them gone. 

Moving without seeing, he threw his legs off the bed, dragging himself up to stand and easing his way out of his room by memory. There was no door, so he didn’t have to worry about that, knocking his shoulder against the frame where it should have been to linger there a moment. 

He was not making it any farther without looking, but taking his hands away seemed beyond him.

He didn’t really know where he was going, either. His own bathroom would have been the ideal choice, but there was no mirror for him to check his eyes in, so whatever had gotten into them would just stay there. He could wash his eyes, he supposed, if he got to the kitchen sink, which had enough space in it to lean under the faucet - but, again, he had to cross the apartment to do that. 

He hunched forward a bit, moving his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes instead.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “Fucking-...”

Hands wrapped around his wrist, startling him, forcibly prying them away. Dexter tugged back, but their grip was stronger than his increasingly shaky arms, and a moment later, he was squinting through stinging eyes at his captor.

Doakes looked into his eyes, one at a time, examining them closely. “Trying to gauge your own fuckin’ eyes out, Morgan?”

“They-...” Dexter blinked, rapidly, trying to clear the sensation. “They  _ hurt.”  _

“You’ve broken half the fuckin’ blood vessels,” Doakes said. “You look like your drug of choice just went to pot. How long have you been messing with them?”

“I’ve only been awake a second,” Dexter murmured. “I need to- I gotta wash them out.”

“Yeah, come on,” Doakes said, and stepped backward, hauling Dexter along wrist-first. 

“I can do it,” Dexter muttered. 

“You’re hardly keeping your eyes open,” Doakes said. “I’ll get you to the sink without tripping over yourself, and you can make sure that you didn’t get any glass dust or anything in there.” 

“I was fine before,” Dexter said.

“Yeah, but you’re shaking like hell,” Doakes pointed out, “and I don’t know enough about heroin OD to know if wanting to tear your own eyes out is a symptom, so I’m  _ hoping  _ you just got them dirty or some shit, and it’s something I can fix.”

“All my skin itches,” Dexter admitted, as Doakes lowered his hands, setting them against the kitchen sink. Scrambling, he brought himself forward, switching on the taps and shoving his face under them.

The water was freezing, and soaked down his face to two tightly closed eyelids, leaving him pulling back, swearing, and entirely unhelped. 

“You notice when you’re fucked up, you curse worse than your damn sister?” Doakes said. “Here.”

He reached around, messing with the taps a moment, pausing every couple of seconds to stick his fingers beneath the flow, until he apparently deemed it satisfactory.

“Come on, dumbass,” Doakes said. His hand cupped the back of Dexter’s head, guiding it forward again, getting his eyes beneath a slow, steady stream.

Dexter forced his eyes to open, only managing partway, but feeling much better with that pressure than his fingers were managing. 

“You’re gonna look like a damn stoner,” Doakes muttered, hand tipping Dexter’s head slightly into the stream. “You really were clawing the fuck out of them.” 

“They,” Dexter said, firmly,  _ “hurt.” _

“I think you need a fuckin’ doctor,” Doakes told him. 

“I’m not going to a hospital,” Dexter snapped. 

“And I’m not taking you to one,” Doakes replied. “I’m just saying - you need some fucking help.”

Dexter pulled back, slightly, coming out from under the water to look up at Doakes. “What do you call this?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to drown you,” Doakes said, flatly. “Feel better?”

“Interesting question from someone trying to drown me,” Dexter said. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Doakes released him, taking a step back. “The fuck happened, anyway? You just wake up hurting?”

“No,” Dexter said. “It was- I started messing with my face, and it just kept getting worse, and I couldn’t- I couldn’t  _ stop.”  _

“I’m starting to think you’ve got OCD,” Doakes said. “You’re just- you’re too fucking obsessive about shit. You were even talking about drugs like a ritual.” 

“Armchair psychiatry doesn’t suit you,” Dexter told him. He cast a look to the couch, frowning when he found it empty. “Where’s Deb?”

“Some fuckin’ guy was blowing her phone up,” Doakes said. “She went to talk to him, I guess.”

“A guy?” Dexter echoed, looking to the door. “Not Lundy, right?”

Doakes snorted. “You noticed that hard-on, too?” he asked. “It’s like watching a kid get a crush on her teacher. Except, her ‘teacher’ is an FBI agent, that’s here for a case and nothing else, and - oh, yeah, her brother’s a fucking drug addict.”

“I’m less worried about me, and more worried about her reputation,” Dexter said. “It definitely looks bad if you start sleeping with the person in charge, after they’ve given you a lot of power.” 

“Accusing your sister of fucking her way to the top?” Doakes asked. “That’s fucked up, Morgan.”

“Dexter,” he reminded him. 

“Dexter,” Doakes amended. “You going back to bed, now?”

“No,” Dexter said. “I really don’t feel like sleeping, right now.”

“Well, come on, then,” Doakes said. “Guess it’s you, me, and the fuckin’ TV.” 

“Movie night at my place,” Dexter muttered, following him to the couch. “Am I still high?”

“You better not be,” Doakes said. “If I’m keeping watch and you’re still shooting up, I’m one fuckin’ shitty cop.”

“You’re not that,” Dexter said. “You’re one of the best cops Miami’s got.” 

Doakes shot him a suspicious look. “What are you buttering me up for, Morgan?” 

“The use of my first name?” Dexter prompted. “You keep going back on that.”

“Force of fuckin’ habit,” Doakes said, taking a seat on the couch, passing over the television remote. “You’re the insomniac. Pick somethin’ to pass out to.” 

“You carrying me back to my room if I fall asleep out here?” Dexter asked, half laughing.

“Fuck no,” Doakes said. “I’m leaving your ass right there and stealing your bed.” 

“Careful if you let Deb climb in with you,” Dexter told him. “She kicks.”

“Well, shit,” Doakes said. “Guess we’re both crashing here.”

_ Movie date with Doakes,  _ Dexter thought, incredulous, searching through movie channels. 

_ Maybe  _ not  _ my  _ worst  _ idea. _


	10. Chapter 10

Plastic crackled under his feet, the noise uncomfortably loud. It made his skin crawl, and his heart race, feeling as though he needed to silence it before someone heard.

He shifted, trying to escape whatever crinkle had made the sound, but every single time he moved, it made it again. He reached out to steady himself on a nearby table, and the noise suddenly doubled, coming from beneath his fingers as well. 

On reflex, he yanked his arm back, hands coming up as though to cover his ears, and another symphony of crinkling plastic sounded, suddenly alerting him to the fact that he was dressed in it as well.

Hands came to his ears, and there was a sticking sound of plastic touching plastic, his hands and his head both apparently coated in it.

Panicking, Dexter lowered his hands to look at them, sucking in a sharp breath at what he saw.

Beneath the clear plastic, there were no solid hands - only more and more layers of plastic, folding and crinkling over each other.

He raised his hand to examine his arm, and found it the same way. A look around the room revealed it consistent with the area around him, too - the table, the floor, the walls, all layers of folded plastic, extending infinitely out.

He turned around, heart pounding, to look at the wall behind him, coming face-to-face with a mirror.

His face was made of plastic, but it wasn’t all the way through, like his hands had been.

Instead, his head, down through his body, had something else in the center, sloshing against the layers of plastic holding it back.

Blood.

He took a step back in fear, and the mirror shattered, shards falling away, leaving the wall behind it bare. It, too, was filled with blood, the wall distended at points, blood flowing against it like it was still being pushed by a heartbeat. 

He looked around. Every bit of plastic had it, now - maybe it always had. Every wall, the floor, the table, all red, separated from him by the thinnest layer of plastic. 

A noise echoed through the room - a mechanical, grinding noise.

“No,” Dexter breathed. “No, no-...”

The wall he was facing strained inward, the plastic turning white as it stretched to capacity.

Dexter scrambled backward as it gave way, splitting open, a long tear stretching across it, blood beginning to pour in. His back hit the wall behind him, and he heard it break, too, feeling warmth as the blood began to pour in over him. 

He had half a second to freeze in terror before it washed over his face, engulfing him-...

_ “Dexter!” _

  
  
  


Dexter’s eyes shot open, and he moved, scrambling backward on the couch, out from Doakes’ touch, until he was pressed against the corner of the sofa. 

“You’re okay,” James told him. “Just a nightmare.”

“It-...it-...”

“You’re  _ okay, _ Dexter,” James repeated. 

“No,” Dexter said, eyes wide, but fixed on the floor, somewhere else entirely. “No, I’m not. I don’t-...I don’t get dreams like that.”

“Well, you just did,” Doakes told him. “You’re awake now, though. You think you’d be okay to sleep again?”

“That was the second one tonight,” Dexter admitted, starting to relax a bit, sinking into the couch and looking back to Doakes. “I don’t remember the first one very well, but  _ that-...”  _

He looked more shaken than he had in the shipping container, crying that his father had killed himself and he’d killed his brother, confessing all his sins under the command of a mega dose of heroin. 

Dexter reached up, hands going to his face, and Doakes moved forward, grabbing him by the wrist.

Dexter yanked free immediately, grabbing Doakes’ wrist instead and using it to shove the man backward. “Don’t-...”

Doakes raised his hands, backing up a bit on the couch. “Sorry,” he said. “Just...don’t mess with your eyes again.”

“Don’t pin my hands down,” Dexter muttered, and ran his hands over his face, though he was gentle around the area of his eyes. “Ever.”

“Noted,” Doakes said, watching him warily. “You got a preference for what I should do  _ instead,  _ then? ‘Cause I’m not sitting here and watching you hurt yourself.”

“Just...say something,” Dexter said. “I’m not a child.”

“Trust you?” Doakes translated.

“That is  _ not  _ what I said,” Dexter said, almost a laugh. “Definitely don’t do that.” 

“Don’t worry, Morgan,” Doakes said. “You’re still a suspicious motherfucker, even if I know what’s up with you.” 

Dexter looked like he wanted to say something, but stopped, shaking his head. “Dexter,” he reminded James. “You got it when you were waking me up.” 

“Only because ‘Morgan’ didn’t work,” James admitted. “Should’ve figured your instinct would be to tune my ass out completely.” 

“Most people would just…” Dexter weakly mimed shaking someone by the shoulders.

“Yeah, no,” Doakes said. “I’ve had enough of them myself to know if there’s one thing you  _ don’t  _ do, it’s make a person who feels like they’re being attacked feel like they need to defend themselves. I’ve seen how freaky your strength is when you want it to be, I don’t need to get thrown on my ass at three in the morning.” 

“Three?” Dexter echoed. “Is that what time it is?”

Doakes turned a bit, looking to the oven clock, then back again. “Just about,” he confirmed. “Why?”

“Is Deb home?”

“Yeah,” Doakes said. “Got home a few hours ago. Said she dumped her boyfriend, and dipped into your room to sleep. I left her alone.” 

“Oh,” Dexter said. “You think…?”

“It probably wasn’t about you,” Doakes said. “Even if you started it. If she tried to tell him she needed space, and he shut it down, that’s a red flag, regardless of what you were talking about to begin with.”

“That’s not…” Dexter shook his head. “Do you think it had anything to do with  _ Lundy?”  _

Doakes snorted. “I’m not speculating,” he said. “That’s none of my business.”

Dexter shot him an unimpressed look. “How come  _ she  _ gets privacy, and I don’t?” 

“You really need me to answer that?”

Dexter huffed out a laugh. “Fair enough, I guess.” He looked to the television, which was still on, at a very low volume, then back to Doakes. “Have you slept at all?”

“I dozed,” he said. “Better than some nights.”

Dexter hummed, unsure how to respond. “I...don’t think I’m going back to sleep.”

“More shitty cable tv?” Doakes offered, gesturing to the television. 

_ “You  _ could sleep,” Dexter told him.

Doakes raised an eyebrow. “And leave you by yourself?” 

Dexter frowned, remembering the babysitting duty on him - he hadn’t even been thinking to get away from it. “Guess not.” 

Doakes got to his feet, crossing the room to the entertainment center, crouching down in front of a shelf of DVDs. 

“You’re a fucking nerd, M-....Dexter,” James told him, looking at the titles. “This is some grade A geek club shit.” 

“Most of those, Deb gave me,” Dexter admitted. “Any of the ones with fight scenes, most likely.” 

“Yeah?” Doakes said, looking over his shoulder. “She got a thing for fight movies?”

“No,” Dexter said. “She likes watching movies with me that use fake blood, so she can hear me complain about how wrong it is.” 

“A movie critic,” Doakes said. “I get that. Never watch a movie with ‘special ops’ guys in the plot - they fuck it up.” 

“Not a fan of James Bond?”

“Man,  _ fuck  _ James Bond.”

Dexter snorted. “I think that’s the motive of half the characters, yeah.”

“Now,  _ that  _ I can understand,” Doakes muttered, looking back to the shelf. “The constant breaking cover, breaking protocol? Hell no.” 

Dexter frowned, stuck on the first part, but he didn’t question it.

Doakes reached out, grabbing a case, pulling it off the shelf. “Kill Bill?”

“A lot of blood,” Dexter said. “Not a lot of it right.” 

Doakes turned the case over, looking at him again. “It gonna bother you?”

“The inaccuracy?”

“The blood.”

Dexter’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’ve never minded blood,” he said, quietly. “It didn’t start bothering me until he came back.” 

Doakes sat the DVD case on the coffee table, crossing back to the couch. “It makes sense he’d dig up old ghosts for you.” 

Dexter waved him off, gesturing back to the table. “You picked a movie,” he reminded him. “You gonna put it on?”

“You really wanna watch a movie?”

“What’s the alternative?” Dexter asked. 

Doakes looked at him, a long moment, then shrugged, turning back to the entertainment center. “Get ready to complain,” he said. “Most action movies fuck up ballistics, too.” 

  
  
  
  


Debra shot up in bed, heart pounding, and didn’t immediately know why.

After a second, though, she caught it: a siren sound, distant and quiet, but there.

Panicking, she scrambled to her feet, rushing into the living room-...

-...To see a scene from  _ Kill Bill  _ on the TV, the source of the siren sounds.

“Jesus,” she breathed. 

“Sorry,” Dexter said, startling her. “I forgot about the sound effects.” 

She turned around, blinking at the image before her: Dexter wedged in the corner of his couch, one leg crunched up to his chest, the other sticking out along the length of it, foot at the edge of Doakes’ thigh, the man sprawled out on the opposite corner, legs out under the coffee table. 

“You guys having a movie date?” she asked, incredulous. 

“I heard your brother was a movie critic,” Doakes said. “We’re trying it out.”

“That,” Debra said, slowly, “is fucking weird.”

Doakes snorted. “No it ain’t.”

“Yes, it’s weird,” Debra said. “You two are hanging out, watching Kill Bill on the couch together, and I’m officially in the fucking Twilight Zone.” She gestured to the bedroom. “I’m going back to sleep. Don’t...fuck on the couch, or anything.”

“I’ll do my best,” Dexter said, flatly.

“I really don’t wanna know which way that’s meant to mean,” Doakes muttered. “Night, Debra.”

“Night,” she returned, heading back into the bedroom. 

Just past the door, though, she heard low voices, and paused, shoving down her own guilty conscience to listen in. 

“You ever gonna tell her?” Doakes asked, quietly. “About-..?”

“I can’t tell her,” Dexter murmured back. “About any of it. Harry was her  _ idol,  _ and-...well, you know the rest. I can’t break her like that.”

“It might make her feel better,” Doakes said. “Knowing she wasn’t the only one suffering.” 

“That’s not the way Deb is,” Dexter said. “If she thought either one of them hurt me-...She’d never forgive them, or herself, for ‘letting it happen.’”

“You gotta talk to  _ someone,  _ Dexter.”

“Well, then,” Dexter replied, “it’s a good thing you’re determined to be in my fucking way. Have you noticed movies never take the time to distinguish what is and isn’t arterial blood?”

Doakes snorted. “Like they can show that on camera?”

“Color distinction, consistency, even  _ spray-...”  _

“It’s on screen for, like, four frames,” Doakes said. “But every gun having the same stopping power doesn’t bother you?”

“I’m not ballistics,” Dexter replied. “I’m blood splatter.” 

“You’re fuckin’ creepy, is what you are.”

Debra pulled away from the wall, heading back to the bed. 

Dexter was hiding something from her, and Doakes knew about it, and it was  _ bad.  _

‘Knowing she wasn’t the only one suffering,’ though - what was that about?

And what did her dad have to do with it? 

_ If she thought they hurt me…  _ What did dad do to Dexter? 

And...who was the other person?

When Dexter had saved her, he’d claimed Rudy had run off, but…

...Could he have lied?

Did Rudy do something to him?

That was all she could think, even if it didn’t make much sense.

She knew, though, that whatever it was...she needed to find out.


	11. Chapter 11

Doakes’ phone went off at precisely 6:30 with an alarm, waking Debra and startling the other two out of the half-conscious state they’d bother settled into. 

Dexter almost immediately yawned, prompting Doakes to shove his foot - still resting beside him on the couch - off to the floor, scolding, “Stop that shit. No time to sleep now, motherfucker. You wanted to work.”

Dexter groaned. “Why did I, again?” he asked. 

“Because you’re a fuckin’ masochist, Dexter,” James told him. “I’ll meet y’all there. I need to stop by my place and change, at least.” 

“You don’t wanna be caught in last night’s clothes?” Debra teased, from the bedroom. 

“Don’t wanna ruin your reputation, Morgan,” Doakes called back. 

Dexter grimaced, mind immediately taking that the worst possible way - Debra’s reputation, at the moment, wasn’t  _ great -  _ but Debra seemed to brush it off, answering, “It’s not  _ me  _ you spent the night spooning on the couch.” 

“Uh, there was no spooning,” Dexter cut in. “There was respectful distance.” 

Debra poked her head out of the bedroom, shirt bunched just under her chest, clearly half in the process of putting it on. “Your feet were in his  _ lap.”  _

“Do you  _ know  _ what spooning is?” Dexter asked her. “Genuine question.”

She flipped him off, yanked her shirt the rest of the way down, and looked to Doakes. “Go on, take a shower. Wash off my brother’s cooties.” 

“You’re havin’ the time of your fucking life, aren’t you, Morgan?” 

“Why am  _ I  _ ‘Morgan’ now?” Debra asked. “You can only remember one name at a time? Are you a fucking goldfish?” 

“Goldfish actually have pretty decent memories,” Dexter told her. “The ‘three seconds’ thing was a myth.” 

“The more you fuckin’ know,” Debra replied. “You gonna get ready for work, or…?”

Dexter got up off the couch, looking to Doakes. “Thanks for-...” He gestured vaguely toward the couch. “Everything.” 

Doakes shot a warning look at Debra when she opened her mouth to comment, prompting her to shrug and say instead, “Thanks for your help, Doakes. I really would have fucked it up myself.” 

“It’s no problem,” Doakes said. “I’m heading out - see you guys at work.” He pointed a warning finger at Dexter. “Don’t touch your fuckin’ face.”

Dexter held his hands up at his sides in protest. “I haven’t done anything.” 

“Tell that to the reefer eyes,” Doakes said, heading to the door. “I’m gone.”

“Bye, Doakes,” Debra called. “Thanks again.”

He raised a hand in acknowledgement as he ducked out. 

Debra looked immediately to Dexter. “What about your face?” She looked to his eyes, then, and sucked in a breath, crossing the room to look closer. “The fuck did you  _ do?”  _

“Are they bad?” Dexter asked. “I got something in them, and I tried to get it out myself, and just messed them up.” 

“Messed them-  _ Dex,  _ you look like you’re either a stoner or a housewife that just watched  _ Titanic.”  _

“That bad?” He got up, making his way toward his room, only to stop short in the doorway. “Right. No mirror.”

“Gotta replace that,” Debra said. “How else will you do your weird ritualistic morning shit?” 

“Ritualistic,” Dexter echoed, frowning.

Debra frowned right back. “What’s with the tone?”

“Something Doakes said,” Dexter told her. “About-...The way I do stuff, how controlling I get of it. He called it OCD.”

“It tracks,” Debra said. “When we were kids, you got pissed at me once because I tied my shoes two different ways.” 

_ “That’s  _ just crazy,” Dexter said.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Who cares?”

“No, I mean, tying your shoes two different ways,” Dexter said. “It’s unnecessarily complicated. And one of your shoes will be tighter than the other.” 

“Yeah, Doakes has a point,” Debra said. “Maybe you should...I dunno. See a doctor? Find out if there’s a name for some of the weird shit you do?” 

“I’d need one hell of an understanding doctor,” Dexter muttered. 

“You know, that might help,” Debra said. “You talked about drugs like- like they were some kind of coping mechanism. Maybe you just need-...”

“State-approved drugs?” Dexter finished. “I don’t like the idea of letting someone else make me into something I’m not. I’ve-...That’s already been a problem for me.”

“Well, I mean,” Debra said. “The alternative is you keep freaking the fuck out on your own reflection in the mirror, so-...”

“The  _ alternative _ is that I get my  _ own  _ shit together,” Dexter said. “I don’t need help.” 

“You absolutely fucking do,” she argued. “Doakes is right, you  _ have  _ to talk to  _ somebody-...” _

_ “Doakes?” _ Dexter cut in. “What the fuck did Doakes say?” 

“You should know better than me,” Debra said. “Considering you two talk to each other, and neither of you will say  _ shit  _ to me.”

Dexter watched her through narrowing eyes. “...What are you talking about?” 

“What the fuck happened to you, Dex?” Debra demanded.

Dexter pulled back a fraction, taken aback. “What?”

“You two were talking last night,” Debra said. “I heard you - you were talking about something someone did to you, and you said you couldn’t tell me.  _ What?  _ What did-...” She swallowed. “What did  _ Rudy  _ do?” 

Dexter’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Nothing,” he said. “‘Rudy’ didn’t do anything to me.” 

“Whatever the fuck his real name was,” Debra corrected. “The fucking Ice Truck Killer, Dexter. What did he  _ do  _ that you can’t tell me about?”

Dexter let out a breath. “You really shouldn’t have listened to that conversation,” he said, quietly. “Trust me, Deb, you don’t wanna know.”

She stared at him, wounded. “He tried to kill me, Dex,” she said. “I cared about him, I liked him a  _ lot,  _ and he was lying to me, so he could kill me. Whatever it is, I promise I get it.”

“No, you _ don’t,”  _ Dexter said, sharply. “Brian-...”

“Brian?” Debra echoed.

“That’s his  _ fucking  _ name, Debra,” Dexter snapped. “Not Rudy. Rudy didn’t fucking exist. And he wasn’t just a goddamn serial killer, or a fucking-....His name was  _ Brian Moser,  _ Deb. And he was my  _ fucking brother.”  _

Debra blinked at him, floored. “...What?”

“Harry adopted me because  _ he  _ got my mother killed,” Dexter told her. “But Brian was older, and he didn’t bother. He let them take him away, and lock him in a hospital until he was old enough, and then they threw him out into the world and let him become  _ that.  _ He came after  _ you,  _ because he was coming after  _ me,  _ because that was the only way he was undoing the damage Harry did. Is  _ that  _ what you wanted to know?” 

“You- no one ever told me,” Debra said. “No one told me you had a family.”

“No one told  _ me,  _ either,” Dexter said. “I had to figure it out for myself, when I saw a dead prostitute’s hand and felt like I recognized the nail polish.”

“...Nail polish?”

“My mother did her nails that way,” Dexter told her. “Different colors on each nail.”

Debra blinked. “You….” She took a step back, head dropping, confusion on her face. “You knew that long?”

“I suspected,” Dexter said. “I didn’t know for sure until he took you.” 

“But you  _ suspected,”  _ Debra said. “You  _ knew  _ he was dangerous, and you let me  _ date  _ him?”

“Would you have stopped if I told you to?” Dexter asked. “I didn’t have any reason to believe that it was  _ him,  _ specifically. I just felt like I probably knew him. I didn’t know anything else about him.” 

“But that’s why you found me, when he took me,” she said. “You knew where he would go because- because he was going after  _ you,  _ not me.”

“Yes,” Dexter admitted. “I looked in a few places, first. The shipyard.”

“The shipyard we found you in the other night?” she asked.

“The shipping container I was in,” Dexter said. “CBAN-3489. It’s where they killed my mother.” 

“Jesus Christ, Dex,” Debra breathed. “You-...you said  _ Harry  _ got her killed?” 

“She was an informant,” Dexter said. “She was feeding him information about a drug cartel. They found out, dragged her and her two sons into a shipping container, and tore her apart with a chainsaw. Right in front of us. They left us, in that container, in her  _ blood,  _ for two days.”

Debra pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, feeling sick. “His- his blood thing,” she said. “And yours. Fuck-...oh, fucking- making you  _ clean?  _ Is that what you meant? Jesus….”

“There you go,” Dexter said, quietly. “You wanted to know.”

“I did,” Debra said. Then, a bit more firmly, she repeated it, looking up at him. “I  _ did.  _ Dex, this kind of shit - if this is what he meant, then he’s  _ definitely  _ right. You have to tell somebody this shit, Dexter.”

“Brian grew up with doctors tracking his every move,” Dexter said. “They didn’t help him. They made him worse.”

“Not every doctor is fucking  _ good,  _ Dex!” She said. “But you’ve got me, and - weirdly enough - you’ve got  _ Doakes,  _ and if we don’t think you’re in a good place we will help you get somewhere else.”

“So you want to hospitalize me?”

“No!” Debra shouted. “No, Dex, I do not want to take you to a  _ fucking  _ hospital! But you need to  _ see someone,  _ and work through this, because it is  _ killing  _ you. Heroin was just a fucking symptom.” 

"My coping mechanisms are  _ illegal,"  _ Dexter told her. "I can't exactly be an open book."

"There are psychiatrists who work with people with addictions," Debra said. "I just- Rudy killed himself, Dexter. I don't want you to get there."

Dexter hesitated in his response. 

Debra, catching this, narrowed her eyes. "What?" She said. "Are you…?"

"He didn't kill himself, Debra," Dexter said, quietly. "I killed him."

Debra stared. "You...what?"

"I killed him," Dexter said. "I put him on that table, and I slit-..."

Debra turned, heading quickly into the kitchen, bracing herself against the sink. "Don't," she said, strained. "Do  _ not  _ tell me that."

"He would have killed you," Dexter said. "He would have-.."

Debra hunched forward, gagging. 

"I had to, Deb," he said. "It had to be me."

"You work for the fucking  _ police,"  _ Debra shouted, looking up with teary eyes. "You could have told someone! He should have been  _ arrested!" _

"I couldn't- I couldn't do that, Deb," Dexter said. 

"Why?" She demanded. "Why, because you cared about him too much?"

_ "Yes," _ Dexter said. "He was my  _ brother." _

_ "You  _ are my brother, Dexter!" Debra cried. "He tried to  _ kill  _ me, and you didn't think for a second he should face any kind of justice for that?"

"He did," Dexter said. 

"No, he didn't!" Debra insisted. "You didn't- you didn't do  _ that  _ for justice, Dexter. Murder isn't about  _ justice."  _ She reached up, running a hand through her hair, sweeping it back off her face. "Fucking- that's Bay Harbor Butcher logic, Dexter."

"Sometimes the system fails," Dexter said. "I couldn't let him slip through the cracks. He had to go."

"I can't believe it," she breathed, looking at him. "It's like I don't even fucking know you."

Dexter's lips thinned. "You don't," he replied, quietly. "I only ever showed you one half of me. I didn't want to- to poison you. To make  _ this  _ your problem."

"....Another thing Doakes said, last night," she said, watching him closely. "He said something- you two mentioned Dad."

"No," Dexter said.

"You  _ did,  _ I  _ heard  _ you."

"No, I mean," Dexter shook his head. "I mean I'm not going to tell you."

"Why the  _ fuck  _ not, Dexter?"

"Because," Dexter said. "You're already starting to hate me. I can't handle that right now."

"I don't  _ hate  _ you, you idiot," she sighed. "I'm fucking-..."

She turned, vanishing into the bedroom, leaving Dexter standing alone in the living room a moment, before she swept back in, clicking through the menus of her phone. 

"We," she said, "are not going to work today."

"What about the case?" Dexter asked. 

"Fuck the fucking Bay Harbor Butcher, Dex," Debra snapped, bringing the phone up to her ear. "We are skipping work. We are buying a drug test. We are finding you a  _ goddamn  _ psychiatrist. Okay?" The phone must have connected, because she immediately switched to talking to whoever had picked up. 

_ Oh, great,  _ Dexter thought.  _ Something even more exciting than the fucking NA meetings.  _

On the bright side, he didn't have to explain his eyes to Masuka, who would have no doubt come up with some horrifying explanation of how they got that way. 

On the worse side, Debra could say what she wanted, but Dexter knew he'd shattered something irreparable. 


	12. Chapter 12

Doakes wasn't really sure what to think about the fact that the  _ second  _ he entered the office, he looked over toward the glass of the lab, checking on Dexter. 

Luckily, he didn't have to think about that, because instead, he was thinking about the fact that Dexter wasn't even fucking there. 

He looked around the room, taking inventory. Lundy and his team were absent, but Masuka was in the lab, which meant that they weren't pulling any extra hands out at the moment. 

Except Dexter wasn't in the fucking lab, and he didn't see Debra, and while the latter could have just gone to hang around Lundy some more, both of them being missing was a red flag. 

Doakes looked over, where Angel was standing a few feet away. "Hey, Batista."

Angel looked over, one eyebrow raised. "You need somethin'?"

"Where the fuck are the Morgans?"

Angel snorted. "That's right, I heard you gave Dexter a ride the other day. You helping them out?"

"The question, Batista," Doakes stressed. "Where'd they go?"

"Nowhere," Angel said. "Debra called in for them today. Said Dexter was sick."

Doakes grit his teeth against the urge to curse. That could mean a number of things, in reality, from Dexter freaking out again to them deciding his eyes were best given time to heal.

"Weird for them to both call out, though," Angel said. "Dexter must be pretty sick if she's taking care of him. Not to mention that neither of them is the type to miss work, anyway." 

Doakes reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone, finding Debra's contact almost on automatic. "How long ago did she call? Who spoke to her?"

Angel was a good detective- he caught the urgency immediately. "LaGuerta, about an hour ago, right when we got in. What's going on? Is something wrong? You think something happened?"

Doakes shook his head, gesturing for the door. "Nothing," he lied. "I've been helping them out with some stuff and I need to make sure they don't need me, that's all. I'm gonna make a call, see what's going on."

Angel nodded, and he turned, heading to the elevator and all the way out to the parking lot before he hit  _ call.  _

Debra picked up on the second ring. "Doakes, hey."

"What happened?" He demanded, immediately. "He freak out again or something?"

"...No," Debra said, something very heavy in her voice. 

Doakes tried not to think the worst. "What'd he do?"

"We talked," Debra said. "He...We talked."

Doakes didn't get it, for a second...and then it clicked. "How much did he tell you?"

"About his mom," Debra said, quietly. "About- about his  _ brother." _

"Everything?"

"Everything."

Doakes let out a low breath. "I figure he oughta," he said, "but I didn't think he would. You still with him?"

"He's in the shower," Debra said. "I'm-..." she let out a faintly hysterical laugh. "I'm on his  _ fucking _ laptop, looking up  _ fucking _ psychiatrists."

"For you or him?"

"Fucking...both?" Debra let out a huff. "He needs to see someone about- just, about all of it. And I'm not in a great place right now, either, so I may as well look for me while I'm at it. Not today, though - I gotta get him sorted out. I'm not leaving him alone today."

"He bad?"

"He's bad," Debra confirmed. "He got-...When he told me, he was- I've never seen him like that. And he was saying shit...I think he's waiting for me to hate him."

"Yeah, he gives that vibe," Doakes muttered. "Don't get his ass Baker Acted, but get him some help. And a sponsor worth a damn, for fuck's sake."

"I'll try," Debra said. "Hey, if you see Lundy-..."

"I'm not passing love notes," Doakes told her immediately. "But I'll pass on an apology and tell him how pissed off you are at having to babysit."

"Thanks," Debra said. "I told them Dex had some kind of allergic reaction to something - took a picture of his eyes for 'proof,' if I need it."

"Clever," Doakes said. "Call me if something happens."

"Sure thing."

Doakes hung up the phone, letting out a low breath. 

"Gonna be the fuckin' death of me, Morgan," he muttered, shoving his phone back in his pocket, only to stiffen as his glance downward caught the image of a shadow lurking between the cars. 

He looked up, narrowing his eyes at LaGuerta. 

"What are you muttering about?" She asked. "You just got here and you already dipped out?" 

"I had to take a call," Doakes said. "Reception in that building is a bitch and a half, and half the cops in there are nosy as shit. Can't have a normal fuckin conversation with two dozen ears leaning in." 

“A private conversation, then?” she asked, teasing, stepping closer.

“Yeah, something like that,” he muttered in response, moving to walk back toward the door.

She fell into step beside him. “Interesting,” she said, “considering that, when I got out here, I  _ swear  _ I heard you say ‘Morgan.’”

“Drop it,” Doakes warned. 

“What are you getting into, James?” she asked. “The last couple of days, you’ve been stuck on Dexter.”

“I’m not stuck on shit,” he protested. “His sister asked me for a favor, that’s all.” 

“A favor that leads to you checking his location once an hour?”

“Well, if he fucking came to work, I wouldn’t have to look for his ass,” Doakes defended. 

“Mmhm,” she hummed. “And why’s it matter if he’s here?”

“Because Lundy fuckin’ hates Masuka, for one,” Doakes said. “He picked the wrong damn lab tech.”

“Ah,” Maria said. “So it’s for Lundy’s sake?”

“No,” Doakes said. “It’s for none of your damn business.” 

“Watch it,” she said, though it was mostly playful. “I  _ am  _ your boss.” 

“You’re damn sure bossy,” he said. “Drop it, Maria. It’s got nothing to do with work, so it doesn’t need to go through you.” 

“I’m not  _ just  _ your boss,” she protested, as they reached the elevator. She waited for the doors to close, and them to start moving, before she told him, quietly, “I’m your  _ friend,  _ James.”

“And I’m telling you, as a  _ friend,  _ to  _ drop it,”  _ Doakes replied. 

“Fine, fine,” Maria sighed. “I’ll find out eventually.” 

_ I sure fucking hope not,  _ Doakes thought, but with the mental image of a red-eyed and manic Dexter in mind, he had the feeling that might be a pipe dream. 

  
  
  
  
  


“Okay,” Debra said, pulling into the parking lot. “So, these guys were able to do a last minute thing-...”

“It wasn’t that urgent,” Dexter sighed. 

“Yeah, it was,” she told him, sternly. “And this isn’t- it’s not a therapist, or anything. They’re the doctors, the psychiatrists. They’re gonna talk to you, and eval you, and tell you what you need, if that’s therapy or meds-...”

“I’m not taking medication,” Dexter said, firmly. 

“Talk to them about it,” Debra suggested. “But they’ll tell you if you’ve got anything, like, OCD or whatever, and where to go from there, okay?” 

“This is stupid,” Dexter muttered. 

_ “You’re _ stupid, Dexter,” Debra snapped. “Let’s check in.”

  
  
  
  
  


“Dexter Morgan?”

Dexter winced, getting to his feet after Debra prodded him in the arm. It went against every instinct he had to use his  _ actual  _ name for this, but he had no intention of killing his doctor, and there was absolutely no way he was about to explain to Deb the fact that the one other time he’d attempted therapy, he’d done so exclusively under an alias. 

It  _ had,  _ however, been vaguely helpful, so he was only  _ mostly  _ certain he was wasting his time. 

He went through some preliminary tests, the nurse getting his weight and blood pressure like he was going to a physical medical appointment - probably gathering background if they tried to give him medication.

He was absolutely  _ not  _ taking medication. He couldn’t risk changing his mind or body like that - everything he was was  _ deliberate,  _ and he wasn’t rolling the dice on how his brain would react to a new chemical. 

He paused, for a moment, at that thought, recalling that he was only  _ there  _ because he’d done exactly that.

Whoops. 

He followed the nurse through a door, and found himself gestured into an office, taking a seat across from the woman at the desk. 

“Dexter Morgan?” she asked, standing, reaching across to shake his hand, which he returned only slightly warily. “I’m Dr. Wagner.”

“Hello,” he greeted, returning to his seat. “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. I was willing to wait, but my sister gets panicked sometimes.” 

“Yes, I spoke to her briefly on the phone,” Dr. Wagner said. “She mentioned you were having some troubles. Can you tell me more about what those are?” 

“Ah,” Dexter faltered. “I have a question.”

“By all means, ask,” she said. “I’ll be happy to answer.”

“What all are you  _ not  _ allowed to talk about?” Dexter said. “Confidentiality is a big thing for doctors, but it stops somewhere, right? At what point can you say something?”

She tipped her head, but if she thought anything about the question was odd, she kept her face remarkably impassive. “Under the Baker Act and other mental health rulings,” she said, “Confidentiality is absolute, until the point where you express a desire to actively hurt yourself or others. Then, I would be obligated to refer you to further psychiatric care, usually involving a 72-hour lockdown within a qualified hospital.” 

Dexter frowned. “But that’s it?” he said. “Someone could sit in front of you, and say anything, and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“If it isn’t an active threat, no,” she said. “If you sat in my office and told me you planned to kill someone, I would be obligated to report it. If you sat in here and told me you’d already done so, over a year ago, and are here to deal with the trauma...It remains under the umbrella of confidentiality.” 

“Huh,” Dexter sat back, surprised. 

“May I ask if this is simple curiosity?” she asked. “Or do you have concerns about the issues you’d like to share, specifically?” 

“I, ah,” Dexter said. 

Well, in for a penny.

“I’m an addict,” he said. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “You’re seeking psychiatric care to aid your recovery?” 

“Yeah,” he said. “Except- well, everything happening has got me on edge, lately, and apparently I just got too twitchy for my sister to take anymore. Her, and a friend of ours - they were doing some armchair psychology, talking about OCD, or something.”

“OCD?” she echoed. “What makes them say that?”

“Well, at the time, it was because I was irritating my eyes,” Dexter said. “I got something in them, and I sort of rubbed the hell out of them. I don’t know if they’re still red now?”

“They are, slightly,” she confirmed, perfectly honest. “So they worried about your anxiety turning to the idea that part of you was dirty?”

“More like, once I started, I wouldn’t stop,” Dexter said. “And, really, that’s...kind of a normal thing. I get something in my head, and I’ve got to do it….and keep doing it, usually. I’m... _ ritualistic _ about things.”

“Ritualistic,” she repeated, musing. “So you repeat behaviors, habitually?” 

“Basically.”

“And when you do this,” she asked, leaning forward a bit, “Do you have active thoughts  _ about  _ doing them? Do you think, while you’re doing it, that you have to, because of a certain path of logic? Or do you do them instinctively, without thinking?”

“...Um,” Dexter faltered. “...Both?” He gestured to his eyes. “This kind of thing is usually instictive. Some stuff, though, I can’t get out of my head unless I do it.”

Like murder.

“Right,” she said. “What happens if you ignore the need? If you try to avoid doing whatever you’re compelled to do?” 

Dexter grimaced. “I’ve...never really tried.”

“Do you think you would be able to?” she asked. “Or do you think it would make your obsessive behaviors worse to try?” 

“Probably the latter?”

He had no idea where she was going, but she seemed to know where she was headed. 

“Can I ask,” she said, as thought Dexter wasn’t literally  _ paying  _ her to ask, “You said  _ ritualistic -  _ your behaviors, do they usually have a ruleset established with them? Certain things you have to do a certain way, in a certain order, that sort of thing?”

“Um, yeah, actually,” Dexter said. “Is that common?”

“It’s very common,” she confirmed. “And, another question - if you were to preform one of these ritualistic behaviors in front of another person, how would you feel? Would it bother you someone saw it?”

“...Depends?” Dexter really had no idea what was going on anymore. “There’s certain stuff I don’t want people to know I do. Other things, though, I don’t really care. I’m not really ashamed of anything I do, I just think it’s easier if other people don’t know about it.” 

“Right,” she said. “Dexter, how familiar are you with the autistic spectrum?”

He blinked, totally thrown. “What?”

“The symptoms you’re describing  _ are  _ indicative of OCD,” Dr. Wagner said. “But the way you say you experience them makes it sound to me like you might be on the autistic spectrum, as well - both exhibit ritualistic or compulsive behaviors, but OCD tends to be more in an active consideration of consequences, and often comes with a heavily ingrained sense of shame or guilt for following compulsions. Autism, though, tends to be more instinctive, or follow a set of strict rules, which may or may not make sense to other people. You saying that it is easier for you to keep secrets - it’s the sort of disconnected logic typical to the autistic spectrum. The belief that you, specifically, have a way to do things, and a reason to do them, and that it has nothing to do with other people at all.”

“You...think I’m autistic?” Dexter asked, incredulous. 

“It’s a theory,” she said. “There’s little psychiatry can do for you, if that is the case, so it would be something to explore more in depth with a therapist. Do you intend to seek therapy?”

“I…” Dexter was floored. “I don’t think my sister is giving me the option.” 

She gave a small smile. “Well, I’ll recommend a few I think would suit you well. For now, I want to return to the idea of OCD - I meant it when I said you were actually describing it well. Even if you are on the spectrum, it’s highly likely you have Obessive-Compulsive tendencies as well.” She readjusted in her seat. “Can you tell me more about the events that led you to seek therapy?” 

Dexter stared at her, baffled… and then, a sick curiosity pulling at him, he thought,  _ what the hell,  _ and started to tell her. 


End file.
